A “NOVEL”  NOVEL. 


CHAPTER  I. 

By  Lady  Constance  Hotuard. 

5 society’s  darling. 

’’  <i  And  all  went  merry  as  a marriage  bell.” 

Lord  Byron,  Childe  Harold , 

' <*  All,  me  1 the  distant  days,  Sweetheart, 

And  all  that  might  have  been.” 

Lady  Arthur  Hill,  Y esteryear . 

A glorious  June  day,  one  to  be  remembered  in 
even  t’nat  most  gracious  of  all  the  fair  months  that 
bonstitute  a year. 

r A soft,  balmy,  baby  breeze,  bringing  a little  re- 
newed vitality  to  poor  mortals  suffering  from  a 
really  scorching  June  sun ; a sky  of  turquoise  blue, 
unrelieved  by  so  much  as  one  fleecy  cloud,  and  for 
the  scene  of  what  may  prove  a blessing,  but  which 
oftener,  alas  ! turns  out  a tragedy,  the  well-known 
Church  of  St.  George’s,  Hanover  Square. 

How  many  lives  have  been  forever  marred  by  a 
brief  sojourn  in  its  decorous  aisles ; how  few  have 
been  crowned  with  the  complete  happiness  which 
marriage  should  really  give  those  who  take  upon 
themselves  its  responsibilities. 

With  Emerson,  we  ask:  “Is  not  marriage  an 
open  question,  when  it  is  alleged  from  the  beginning 
of  the  world  that  such  as  are  in  the  institution  wish 
to  get  out,  and  such  as  are  out  wish  to  get  in  ? 
Every  moment  the  crowd  of  eager  sightseers  be- 


4 


A “ NOVEL  ” NOVEL. 


comes  more  dense.  They  come  from  all  quarters 
seemingly  all  districts  of  London  have  sent  repr< 
sentatives,  from  peeresses  to  flower-sellers. 

Why  such  a tremendous  fuss  ? What  is  there  i 
this  special  marriage  to  attract  so  much,  such  uni 
versal  attention  ? 

Only  this,  that  the  bridegroom  bears  a nam 
which  has  descended  in  an  unbroken  line  fron 
father  to  son  for  many  generations,  and  alway 
been  borne  with  honor.  The  present  owner  of  th 
title  is  no  exception  to  his  ancestors.  Everyon 
has  a good  word  for  him,  which  he  richly  deserves 
He  is  young,  g-ood-looking,  almost  too  rich;  hii 
name  is  a synonymous  term  for  charity,  sympath, 
and  good  deeds ; he  is  the  last  of  his  race,  and  he  ii 
about  to  marry  the  one  and  only  woman  that  h 
ever  has  or  ever  can  love. 

There  is  no  skeleton  in  his  cupboard. 

He  has  taken  his  place  with  his  best  man  in  at 
tendance,  and  is  impatiently  and  joyously  waiting 
his  darling’s  arrival. 

Presently  Guardsmen  file  into  the  church,  ant 
line  the  two  sides  of  the  aisle  up  to  the  altar  steps 
for  the  Duke  of  Mowbray — “ Society’s  Darling,”  a 
he  is  called — is  in  the  Coldstreams,  and  is  belovei 
alike  by  officers  and  men.  1 

The  Guardsmen’s  red  tunics  make  a bright  spo 
in  the  church,  which  is  decorated  with  the  rares 
flowers. 

Presently  the  organ  peals  forth,  as  quickly  th 
invited  guests  pass  to  their  allotted  places.  Outsid 
the  crowd  is  getting  impatient.  They  want  som 
one  to  amuse  them,  and  they  have  exhausted  a! 
their  ideas  in  remarks  upon  the  dress,  manners  an 

' i , 


A e<  NOVEL  ” 


NOVEL. 


5 


appearance  of  those  already  assembled.  Fame  has 
preceded  the  bride.  They  one  and  all  know,  that 
rf  all  England’s  fair  daughters,  none  can  excel,  few 
equal,  the  transplendent  beauty  of  the  future 
duchess,  a widow  of  seven-and-twenty,  whose  hus- 
band, it  was  believed,  was  killed  after  a gambling 
quarrel  in  New  York,  two  years  before.  She  was 
childless,  and  fairly  well  off. 

At  last  the  expectant  crowd  are  rewarded  for 
their  extreme  patience  by  the  arrival  of  the  bride, 
as  fair  a one  as  ever  the  sun  shone  on.  Everyone 
pushes  forward,  toes  are  trodden  upon,  and  people’s 
elbows  prove  very  aggressive ; but  the  crowd  is  a 
good-tempered  one,  and  they  give  and  take  their 
neighbors’  undesired  attentions  with  smiling  forti- 
tude and  an  indifference  to  pain  that  is  almost 
sublime. 

The  long-desired  moment  has  arrived,  and,  as 
they  gaze  on  the  fair  lady  who  is  carefully  handed 
out  by  the  gentleman  who  is  to  give  her  away,  they 
'acknowledge  unanimously,  both  silently  to  them- 
selves and  by  most  openly  expressed  admiration, 
that  their  long  waiting  has  an  adequate  reward. 

Slowly  Lady  Seringa  Arkell,  for  such  is  her 
quaint  and  pretty  name,  proceeds  along  the  red- 
carpeted  way  into  the  church,  and,  with  a sweet 
iignity  and  graceful  bearing,  walks  up  the  aisle  to 
where  the  duke  is  awaiting  her.  No  need  to  ask  if 
theirs  shall  prove  a happy  marriage,  “a  true 
union  of  hearts,”  as  it  ought  ever  to  be ; for  Lady 
Seringa’s  eyes  as  she  raised  them  to  the  Duke’s 
were  shining  with  happiness,  and  the  intense  love 
she  so  truly  felt  for  him — for  him,  because  he  was 
himself y just  the  one  man  in  the  wide  world  for  her, 


6 A “ NOVEL  ” NOVEL. 

the  only  one,  not  because  he  was  a duke,  or  for  air 
worldly  advantages  he  could  give  her. 

The  Duke  on  his  side  seemed  equally  radiant.  L 
there  any  among  the  manifold  gifts  God  showen 
upon  His  people  so  great  as  the  soul-absorbing 
pure,  ennobling  influence  of  an  intense  love  of  ; 
man  for  a woman,  a woman  for  a man  ? Wher 
vouchsafed  to  mortals,  should  they  not  cherish  it 
and  feed  the  flame  of  their  affection  by  every  mean* 
in  their  power  ? As  it  is  in  time , so  when  genuine  i 
lasts  into,  and,  I believe,  through  eternity . 

The  bride’s  dress  is  a triumph  bf  the  dress 
maker’s  art.  It  is  of  silvery  shining  gray,  the  long 
train,  bodice,  and  sleeves  being  of  satin,  brocadec 
in  bouquets  of  seringa,  myrtle,  and  carnations,  tied 
with  true-lovers’  knots,  the  flowers  being  in  pearls, 
the  knots  in  silver  ribbon,  woven  into  the  satin, 
The  front  of  the  dress  is  veiled  in  priceless  point 
d’Alengon,  while  the  bonnet  is  gray,  to  match  the 
dress,  and  a gray  tulle  veil  shows  through  its  trans- 
parent folds  her  lovely  face.  A necklace,  earrings! 
and  bracelets  of  diamonds,  worth  a king’s  ransom 
and  an  enormous  bouquet  of  the  same  flowers  as 
her  dress  is  brocaded  with,  tied  with  gray  satin  ane 
silver  ribbon  embroidered  in  pearls,  completes  ; 
toilette  that  shows  her  tall,  lovely  figure  to  th 
greatest  advantage  by  its  rich  simplicity. 

She  has  a complexion  like  a rose  that  the  morn 
ing  sun  has  just  kissed  into  life,  great  violet  eye 
with  long,  curling  dark  lashes,  and  masses  of  hai 
of  a golden  brown,  that  are  coiled  round  her  shape! 
head  and  rest  lovingly  in  a soft  fringe  on  herbroac 
low,  white  forehead  ; her  nose  is  all  that  the  ac 
cepted  canons  of  beauty  require  it  to  be,  and  as  fo 


A “ NOVEL  ” NOVEL. 


7 


her  mouth,  it  is  the  crowning*  beauty  of  her  lovely 
face. 


The  Duke  is  her  equal  in  every  respect,  with  his 
, good,  and  handsome  face,  and  soldierly 


mple  than  the  two  now  standing  before  the 
[ Archbishop  at  the  altar,  eager  and  willing  to  plight 
f their  troth,  as  they  have  already  done  so  sincerely 
| in  their  loving  hearts. 

! The  short  service  was  most  impressively  read  ; 
soon  the  Archbishop  came  to  the  words  which  gave 
the  Duke  and  Seringa  for  ever  to  each  other  : “For- 
asmuch as  Carrol  Urlin  and  Seringa  Desiree  have 
consented  together  in  holy  wedlock,  and  have  wit- 
nessed the  same  before  God  and  this  company,  and 
thereto  have  given  and  pledged  their  troth  either 
to  other,  and  have  declared  the  same  by  giving  and 
receiving  of  a ring,  and  by  joining  of  hands  ; I pro- 
nounce that  they  be  man  and  wife  together,  in  the 
1 name  of  the  Father,  and  of  the  Son,  and  of  the 
Holy  Ghost.  Amen.” 

One  brief  glance  was  exchanged  between  the  two ; 
fleeting  though  it  was,  it  held  an  eternity  of  love,  of 
thankfulness,  and  inexpressible  happiness. 

The  rest  of  the  service  was  soon  over,  so  was  the 
] signing  of  the  register.  Then,  as  the  organ  pealed 
forth  that  lovely  Wedding  March,  the  Duke  and 
Duchess  of  Mowbray  proceeded  slowly  down  the 
! aisle,  stopping  frequently  to  receive  the  congratula- 


In  short,  the  world  cannot  show  a hand- 


8 


A 


NOVEL  ” NOVEL. 


would  have  done  anything  in  the  world  to  prevent 
her  marrying*.  But  the  Duke  had  a will  of  his  own, 
he  had  run  the  gauntlet  unscathed  of  several  London 
seasons,  and  he  valued  the  attentions  of  the  match- 
making mothers  and  the  cool,  calculating  daughters 
at  precisely  their  true  worth. 

He  knew  very  well  that  the  fickle  jade,  Fortune, 
with  a turn  of  her  wheel  could  deprive  him  of  all 
his  worldly  advantages,  and  make  him  a nobody 
and  a poor  man ; that  those  who  now  flattered  him 
and  made  up  to  him  most  assiduously  would  be  the 
very  first  to  pass  by  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road 
with  averted  eyes,  if  they  saw  him  coming. 

He  loved  Seringa,  because  she  was  herself,  for 
the  same  reason  that  she  loved  him,  and  she  was, 
the  only  woman  in  the  world  who  had  stirred  to  its 
depths  the  intense  affection  of  which  he  was  equal, 
while  he  had  raised  in  her  heart  an  equally  absorb- 
ing passion. 

Well  was  she  named  “ Desiree/’  for  in  very 
truth  she  was  “ His  Heart’s  Desire.” 

As  soon  as  the  carriage  had  driven  off,  the 
Duke  drew  his  wife  into  his  arms,  and  pressed  upon 
her  sweet  lips  a tender  kiss,  murmuring  as  he  did 
so — 

“ My  wife  ! My  own  at  last,  thank  God  ! ” 

They  received  a cordial  greeting  from  the  crowd 
who  had  assembled  at  the  house  of  the  Duke’s 
favorite  sister,  the  Marchioness  of  Allonby,  where 
the  wedding  breakfast  was  to  be  given. 

The  presents  were  magnificent,  the  jewels  oi 
surpassing  splendor,  and  the  trousseau  fit  for  ar 
empress. 

The  band  of  the  Coldstreams  was  stationed  it] 


A 


NOVEL 


NOVEL. 


9 


jbhe  garden,  and  played  divinely ; all  was  life,  and 
5*ayety,  and  joyousness. 

Nothing  could  be  imagined  that  could  add  to  the 
lappiness  of  the  assembled  guests ; and  those  who 
[(appreciated  the  efforts  of  an  unrivaled  chef  were 
(amply  rewarded  by  the  variety  and  excellence  of 
jbhe  dishes  set  before  them. 

The  cake  had  been  cut  by  the  bride,  her  health 
'^nd  that  of  the  Duke  had  been  duly  honored,  and  now 
(Seringa  Mowbray  had  left  the  guests  for  the  purpose 
of  changing  her  dress  for  her  traveling  costume  ! 

Her  husband  followed  her ; he  wanted  to  give 
her  his  first  present  since  she  became  his  wife. 

It  was  a broad  gold  band,  set  in  sapphires  and 
((diamonds,  forming  the  words  Loyal  a Mort.  In  the 
( center  was  an  oval  with  the  Duke’s  miniature,  with 
llbhe  coronet  and  initials  in  the  same  stones,  and  his 
hair  on  the  other  side,  which  formed  the  lid ; and 
' inside  the  band  was  engraved  the  date  of  their  mar- 
flfriage,  and  the  words,  “ This  and  my  heart.” 

{ The  Duke  clasped  the  bracelet  on  his  wife’s  arm, 
and,  kissing  her  passionately,  said  : 

“ Do  not  be  long,  my  darling ; we  have  only  just 
time  to  get  to  the  station.”  He  also  went  to  don 
his  traveling  clothes. 

Twenty  minutes  later  he  came  downstairs,  and 
went  into  his  sister’s  boudoir  for  a few  last  words, 
with  her. 

; 

Lady  Allonby  was  charmed  with  the  marriage  ; 
it  was  at  her  home  that  the  Duke  had  first  met 
Seringa.  Lady  Allonby  had  known  her,  too,  at  the 
ime  of  her  husband’s  death,  and  before  it;  and 
ady  Allonby  only  knew  the  tragedy  her  life  had 
een  while  married  to  Mr.  Arkell. 


10 


She  had  married  him,  that  his  money  mi 


A “ NOVEL  99  NOVEL. 


save  her  father  from  ruin  • the  father  to  whom  sh] 
had  been  so  devoted,  and  the  consequences  had  beej 
utter  misery  to  herself. 

He  drank,  he  gambled,  he  betted,  he  insulteo 
his  wife  by  every  means  in  his  power.  I 

One  day  he  was  missing.  He  had  lost  heavilj 
the  night  before,  and  though  every  possible  searclj 
had  been  made  for  him,  neither  dead  nor  alive  wal 
he  ever  seen  again.  It  was  thought  he  was  drowned] 
and  after  living  in  complete  solitude  for  eight  yearsd 
Lady  Seringa  met  the  Duke,  loved  him  as  he  ioveq 
her,  and  finally  married  him— a fit  termination  t<| 
all  her  years  of  misery.  1 

“ Surely  you  ought  to  be  going,”  said  LadJ 
Allonby ; “it  will  take  half  an  hour  to  get  to  thl 
station.  I will  go  and  hurry  Seringa.”  I 

Sc  saying,  she  ran  upstairs.  ] 

A quarter  of  an  hour  elapsed,  and  the  Duke  wal 
just  going  to  send  to  say  the  carriage  was  waiting! 
when  Lady  Allonby  ran  into  the  room  with  coni 
sternation  on  her  features.  I 

“ Good  heavens  ! ” exclaimed  the  Duke,  “ whal 
is  wrong  ? ” I 

“ Oh  ! my  darling  brother,  how  can  I tell  you! 
Seringa  is  gone  ! She  is  not  in  her  room,  she  is  no* 
in  the  house  ! Where  can  she  be  ? ” I 

The  Duke  stood  like  one  stunned,  then  suddenly 
he  rushed  from  the  room,  ran  to  the  room  wheijl 
his  wife  had  been  dressing.  Everything  was  il 
confusion,  not  even  a line  from  his  wife  to  explaiB 
her  conduct ; she  had  disappeared  without  leaving 
a trace  behind  her  ! ■ 

The  extraordinary  event  had  become  known 


11 


A 6(  NOVEL  ” NOVEL. 

Sthe  guests,  and  great  was  their  sympathy  for  the 
1 unfortunate  bridegroom. 

Silently  they  dispersed ; for  what  could  they  say 
Iw  do  in  a sorrow  such  as  this  ? 

So  night  came  on,  and  the  silvery  rays  of  the 
noon  fell  upon  a bridegroom  of  a few  hours,  bereft 
)f  his  bride,  for  not  a trace  of  the  Duchess  of  Mow- 
bray was  to  be  discovered.  She  had  vanished  as 
completely  as  if  the  events  of  the  morning  had 
never  occurred ; she  was  as  utterly  lost  as  if  she 
had  never  existed ! 


CHAPTER  II. 

By  Miss  Lane . 

BEREFT. 

“ A dirge  in  marriage.”— Shakespeare,  Hamlet « 

“How  weary,  stale,  flat,  and  unprofitable, 

Seem  to  me  all  the  issues  of  this  world.”— Ibid. 

“ By  Jove ! ” exclaimed  Derrick  Tredegar,  in 
the  billiard-room  of  the  Carnation  Club,  the  even- 
ing of  the  Duke  of  Mowbray’s  wedding-day: 
“here’s  a pretty  muddle ; what  on  earth  does  it 
all  mean  ? ” 

“What  does  what  mean?”  asked  the  man  to 
whom  he  addressed  his  question,  a young  Guards- 
man called  Clive  Lyndhurst.  “ Explain  yourself, 
man ! how  on  earth  can  any  one  reply  without 
something  a little  more  definite  as  to  the  informa- 
tion you  require  ? ” 

> “ Beg  pardon,  old  fellow,”  said  Derrick,  “ but  1 

really  am  so  bewildered  that  I hardly  know  what  1 
am  saying.  I allude  to  this  paragraph  in  The  Even- 


12 


A 


NOVEL 


NOVEL. 


ing  Comet  about  Mowbray ; it  says  that  his  wife  hai 
disappeared  ! ” 

“ Absolutely  true/5  replied  Clive.  “ I was  a] 
the  wedding,  and  when  the  time  came  for  them  fct  j 
start  olf  on  their  honeymoon,  we  all  waited  wit 
the  utmost  eagerness  to  see  the  bride  come  down(j 
she  is  quite  lovely,  as  you  know. 

“Well,  our  patience  /as  not  rewarded.  W 
waited,  and  waited,  all  to  no  purpose ; and  at  las- 
Lady  Allonbj^  want  upstairs  to  hurry  the  Duchesi 
and  tell  her  that  they  would  lose  their  train. 

“ She  did  not  return  for  some  time ; and,  whei 
she  did,  she  passed  us  all  with  a face  as  white  as 
ghost,  and  hurried  to  Mowbray. 

“In  about  ten  minutes  Lady  Allonby  returned! 
and  told  us  that  the  Duchess  had  actually  disap 
peared,  leaving  no  more  trace  than  if  she  had  neve] 
existed.  There  was  not  *a  word,  a line — nothing 
and  she  had  taken  nothing  with  her  of  her  jewelr 
except  a bracelet  which  Mowbray  had  given  he 
and,  of  course,  her  wedding-ring. 

“ Her  maid  could  give  no  explanation ; she  ha< 
only  left  her  for  a few  minutes  to  finish  some  pac! 
ing.  When  she  returned,  she  found  the  room 
empty ; but  concluded  that  the  Duchess  had  gon^ 
down,  as  she  knew  there  was  not  much  time  t< 
spare; 

“ !N~o  note,  or  telegram,  or  message  had  bee! 
given  to  her  as  far  as  the  maid  knew,  nor  had  an 
one  been  admitted  to  see  her. 

“ The  room  in  which  the  Duchess  changed  he^ 
dress  opens  into  the  garden,  and  there  is  a gate  i 
the  wall  immediately  opposite  the  door,  this  wa' 
being  fairly  low ; but  there  were  no  traces  of  foot! 


A “ NOVEL  ” NOVEL. 


13 


steps.  Who  could  possibly  have  spoken  to  the 
Duchess  ? and,  granting1  that  some  one  did  so,  who 
on  earth  held  an  influence  over  her  strong*  enough 
to  compel  the  Duchess — whom  all  the  world  knows 
is  so  utterly  devoted  to  her  husband — to  disappear 
so  absolutely  as  she  has  done,  without  even  a word 
of  excuse  or  farewell  ? ” 

“ It  is  awful/’  said  Tredegar.  “ What  is  to  be 
done  ? I never  heard  of  such  a thing  in  all  my  life, 
did  you  ? ” 

“ Never/’  replied  Clive,  c<  and  I do  not  wish  to. 
I never  m all  my  life  saw  anything  to  equal  the  ex- 
pression of  agony  and  hopeless  despair  on  poor 
Mowbray’s  face,  as  he  realized  that  his  bride  of  a 
couple  of  hours,  the  wife  he  idolized,  the  woman  he 
had  loved  so  well  and  so  faithfully,  was  utterly  lost 
to  him.  It  was  enough  to  make  a strong  man  cry  to 
see  him,  so  gentle,  so  courteous,  even  in  this  ap- 
palling misfortune,  to  all  his  guests.” 

“ What  has  been  done  about  it  ? ” asked  Trede- 
gar. 

“ Everything,”  replied  Clive  ; “ Allonby  went 
with  me  to  Scotland  Yard — you  know,  Mowbray  is 
the  greatest  friend  I have  in  the  world — and  we  set 
the  whole  machinery  there  at  work  at  once ; but 
the  Duchess  had  a good  start  by  the  time  the  de- 
tectives began  their  work,  a start  which  any  one 
evidently  as  clever  and  determined  as  she  is  will  not 
be  slow  to  utilize. 

“All  that  is  certain  is  that  she  has  disappeared, 
why  or  wherefore  we  do  not  at  present  know ; I 
doubt  that  we  ever  shall. 

“ As  for  Mowbray,  I have  only  just  left  him.  He 
is  like  a lunatic;  nob  raving,  but  with  an  expres- 


14 


A ‘ ‘ NOVEL  5 5 NOVEL. 


sion  of  pathetic  misery  on  his  face  that  I have  never 
seen  equaled.  I will  not  answer  for  his  brain,  if  his 
wife  never  returns  to  him.” 

“ What  is  your  theory  on  the  subject  ? ” asked 
Derrick;  “ if  it  was  a man  who  had  disappeared, 
we  should  without  delay  look  for  the  woman.” 

“ My  theory,”  replied  Lyndhurst,  “ is  that  we 
have  simply  to  reverse  the  position  of  affairs  and 
look  for  the  man.” 

“ What  ! ” exclaimed  Derrick,  “ you  really 
think  that  most  lovely  and  charming*  woman  is  un- 
faithful to  Mowbray — to  the  man  who  adores  her, 
and  to  whom  she  has  been  for  so  long  devoted  ? ” 

“ Souvent  femme  varie,tres  fort  est  qui  si  fit,”  re- 
sponded Lyndhurst,  with  a shrug  of  his  shoulders 
and  a cynical  smile,  as  he  carefully  selected  a choice 
cigarette  from  his  case  and  lighted  it ; “ far  be  it 
for  me  to  say  what  any  woman  will  or  will  not  do, 
even  the  Duchess  of  Mowbray,  with  position,  youth, 
untold  wealth,  matchless  beauty  and  the  utter  de- 
votion of  the  only  man  in  the  world  she  has  ever 
seemed  to  care  for.” 

“But,”  insisted  Derrick,  “her  name  has  never 
been  coupled,  by  even  the  greatest  scandal-monger 
in  London,  with  that  of  any  man  ; we  all  know  she 
was  a widow,  and  we  have  no  reason  to  doubt  that 
her  husband  was  really  and  truly  drowned ; she 
has  no  enemies  that  any  one  ever  heard  of,  and  she 
does  not  give  one  the  impression  that  she  has  a 
secret  husband  and  family  in  the  background,  and 
has,  therefore,  committed  bigamy.” 

“ It  is  altogether  too  mysterious,”  rejoined 
Lyndhurst.  “ I never  wTas  so  puzzled  in  my  life ; I 
regret  her  extraordinary  disappearance  extremely 


A “ NOVEL5’  novel.  15 

, for  her  own  sake,  for  no  one  could  help  being  de» 
] voted  to  her  who  knew  her  ; and  I regret  what  has 
j happened  a thousand  times  more  for  Mowbray’s 
f sake,  for  if  there  can  be  such  a thing  as  a broken 
heart,  which  I for  one  do  not  doubt,  Mowbray  will 
own  that  undesirable,  possession  if  his  wife  is  not 
found.” 

“ Poor  old  chap  ! ” said  Derrick,  pityingly ; 
“ was  there  ever  such  hard  lines  for  any  fellow  ? ” 

“I  must  go,”  said  Lyndhurst.  “I  promised 
Mowbray  to  stay  there  to-night ; I can’t  bear  to 
think  of  him  alone  in  his  misery  ; have  a B.  and  S. 
and  come  with  me,  Tredegar,  and  hear  if  there  is 
any  news.” 

“ Willingly,”  replied  Tredegar. 

The  B.  and  S.  duly  drunk,  the  two  young  fellows 
left  the  club,  and,  hailing  a hansom,  soon  found 
themselves  at  their  destination.  Lyndhurst  sprang 
out  and  rang  the  bell,  followed  more  leisurely  by 
Tredegar. 

“ What  news  ? ” asked  Lyndhurst  of  the  butler. 

“None,  alas!  sir,”  replied  the  butler;  “his 
Grace  seems  nearly  mad.” 

“ Shall  I go  to  him  ? ” asked  Lyndhurst. 

“ If  you  please,  sir,  and  Captain  Tredegar  also.” 

So  with  quiet  footsteps,  the  two  wended  their 
way  to  the  room  which  the  Duke  had  made  his 
special  sanctum. 

“ Good  heaven  ! ” murmured  Tredegar  under  his 
[ breath,  as  he  first  saw  his  old  friend. 

Was  it  possible  that  a few  short  hours  could 
) change  any  one  so  much  ? 

Not  only  possible,  but  certain. 

No  man  or  woman  can  really  love,  without  show- 


16  A “novel”  novel. 

mg'  traces  of  acute  suffering  on  their  faces,  if  any- 
thing happens  to  separate  them  from  the  one  per- 
son in  the  world  they  care  for ; and  under  such 
extraordinary  and  tragic  circumstances  the  agony 
must  be  intensified  a hundredfold.  It  is  a terrible 
thing  to  have  your  whole  life  bound  up  in  that  of 
another  person,  to  have  your  very  existence  depend- 
ing upon  the  love  and  constancy  they  give  or  with- 
hold from  you,  and  such  was  the  poor  Duke’s  un- 
happy  fate.  He  had  never  loved  any  woman  but 
Seringa,  and  to  lose  her  in  this  unaccountable  fash- 
ion so  short  a time  after  they  Avere  married  was 
enough  to  turn  his  brain. 

“ Lyndhurst,  dear  old  friend,  what  shall  I do  ? ” 
he  exclaimed ; “ there  is  no  trace  of  my  darling 
to  be  found.  I do  not  suppose  I shall  ever  see  her 
again.” 

And  he  sank  into  a chair,  and  buried  his  face 
in  his  hands,  a prey  to  anguish  so  keen  that  the 
two  men  could  only  stand  by  in  silent  sympathy 
for  a grief  that  seemed  beyond  human  consolation. 

Thus  for  some  time  they  remained,  until  Lynd- 
hurst could  stand  it  no  longer ; so  he  laid  his  hand 
upon  the  Duke’s  shoulder  Avith  a tender  pressure, 
and  said  : 

“ Do  not  lose  heart,  dear  old  fellow,  it  is  all  too 
marvelous,  too  sad  ; but  I have  a feeling,  and  I am 
seldom  wrong  in  my  presentiments,  that  all  will 
yet  be  well,  and  that  the  Duchess  will  return  to 
you,  or  at  any  rate  be  found,  and  then  you  can  go 
to  her.  You  may  have  to  wait  some  time ; but  I 
do  not  believe  that  Providence,  who  has  given  you 
to  each  other  after  all  your  love  and  constancy,  Avill 
dash  your  cup  of  happiness  to  the  ground,  and  ne\Ter 


a. 


A 


NOVEL 


NOVEL. 


17 


let  you  enjoy  the  happiness  you  both  so  thoroughly 
deserve.  It  is  so  short  a time  since  our  search  has 
! begun,  with  no  shadow  of  a trace  to  work  upon. 

Oi  You  must  acknowledge  that  the  task  is  a severe 
one,  but  not,  I hope  and  think,  an  insurmountable 
one.  I know  it  sounds  very  cruel  to  preach  pa- 
tience to  any  one  suffering  as  you,  Mowbray,  are 
doing ; but  it  is  the  only  counsel  I can  at  present 
give  you. 

,fTis  ill  men’s  office  to  speak  patience 
To  those  that  wring  under  the  load  of  sorrow. 


And  I feel  sure,  were  I in  your  place,  I should  not 
bear  such  a crushing  blow  a quarter  as  well.” 

“ Pray  Heaven  you  may  never  have  such  a fate 
as  mine,”  answered  Mowbray,  in  a despairing  voice. 
tc  You  cannot  imagine  what  it  feels  like,  to  realize 
(and  facts  must  be  faced)  that  T shall,  perhaps, 
never  see  my  darling  again.  I feel  as  if  I should 
go  mad.  The  awful  uncertainty  of  what  has  be- 
come of  her,  what  has  happened  to  her,  who  has 
taken  her  away,  is  what  knocks  me  over  so  com- 
pletely. It  would  be  easier  to  bear  to  know  her 
dead,  and  that  there  was  no  terrible  other  future 
in  store  for  her,  than  know  she  has  simply  van- 
ished, and  that,  if  I live  to  be  an  old  man,  I may 
never  see  my  wife  again ; my  last  recollections  of 
her,  her  look  of  love,  and  the  passionate  kiss  she 
gave  me  as  she  disappeared  into  that  fatal  room 
to  change  her  dress,  to  begin  with  me  the  journey 
of  life  together,  when  we  should  be  together,  until 
| death  called  one  of  us  to  himself ; and  then  I know, 
if  I had  been  the  survivor,  her  death  would  have 
soon  re-united  us,  for  I cannot,  I will  not,  live  with- 
out Seringa.” 


18 


A 


NOVEL 


NOVEL. 


(C 


Sobs  shook  the  strong  man’s  frame,  no  disgrace 
to  his  manhood,  for  they  were  tears  of  blood  forced 
from  his  heart  by  the  agony  of  passionate  love  and 
regret  for  his  darling  that  he  was  enduring.  j 

Surely  so  strange  a fate  had  never  befallen  a t 
happy  husband,  to  be  bereft  of  his  wife  almost  as 
soon  as  they  had  become  man  and  wife. 

A bridegroom  without  a bride  ! 

The  Duke  soon  recovered  himself,  and,  with  the 
lovable  smile  that  made  his  handsome  face  such  a 
winning  one,  he  turned  to  the  two  young  men  and  \ 
said  : 

“You  will  forgive  me,  I know,”  holding  out  a 
hand  to  each  as  he  spoke. 

“ I should  rather  think  so,”  said  Derrick,  heart- 
ily. “ May  I make  a suggestion,  a practical  one — 
namely,  that  you,  Mowbray,  should  have  something 
to  eat  and  drink  ? You  have  touched  nothing  since 
the  blow  fell  upon  you,  and  you  will  want  to  hus- 
band all  your  strength  for  the  task  in  front  of  you ; 
will  you  let  me  ring  for  something  to  be  brought 
to  you  ? ” 

“ Yes,”  said  the  Duke,  “ although  I do  not  think 
I can  swallow  a morsel ; but  it  would  be  very  un- 
grateful to  refuse  any  suggestion  of  either  of  you, 
my  two  valued  and  proved  friends.” 

So  the  bell  was  rung,  and  very  soon  a dainty 
repast  was  served  to  the  three  gentlemen,  while  the 
butler,  who  had  grown  white  in  the  service  of  the  i 
Mowbray  family,  father  and  son,  poured  them  out 
the  best  champagne  the  famous  Mowbray  cellars 
could  boast  of. 

After  a few  minutes,  Mowbray  half  rose,  saying,  , 
“It’s  no  use,  food  seems  to  choke  me.” 


A 


NOVEL 


NOVEL. 


19 


(£ 


?? 


) Bsut  Lyndhurst  made  him  sit  down  again,  quietly 
observing,  as  be  put  a glass  of  champagne  into  his 
( I hand  : 

“Do  you  not  think  that  your  wife  would  wish 
you  to  keep  your  strength  up  by  eating  and  drink- 
ing what  you  can  ? ” 

He  had  touched  the  right  chord,  and,  obedient 
as  a little  child,  the  Duke  did  as  he  was  told. 

Suddenly  he  turned,  if  possible,  paler  than  he 
already  was. 

“ What  is  it  ? ’ 9 exclaimed  Tredegar  and  Lynd- 
hurst in  a breath. 

“ Do  you  think  Seringa  has  committed  suicide  ? ” 
asked  the  Duke,  in  a voice  of  anguish. 

“ Not  for  one  moment,”  th^  both  replied,  in- 
stantly. “ There  is  not  one  thing  to  point  to  such 
a conclusion.  She  has  no  madness  in  her  family, 
and  besides  that,  my  dear  Mowbray,  a woman  does 
not  usually  commit  suicide  the  day  she  marries  the 
one  man  the  world  holds  for  her,  whom  she  loves 
with  all  her  heart  and  soul,”  said  Lyndhurst. 
“ No  ! dismiss  that  idea  from  your  mind  at  once 
and  for  ever ; if  your  wife  is  dead,  she  has  been 
^ murdered  or  died  from  an  accident ; I would  stake 
my  life  that  she  has  never  taken  her  own.” 

“So  would  I,  really,”  said  the  Duke;  “ but  no 
idea  seems  too  improbable  for  my  brain  to  enter- 
tain it.” 

“ I suppose,”  said  Lyndhurst,  “ every  nook  has 
been  searched  for  the  slightest  clew.” 

“Yes,”  said  the  Duke,  “ and  absolutely  without 
* success  ; come  and  see  for  yourselves.” 

So  they  adjourned  to  the  room  in  which  Seringa 
had  changed  her  bridal  dress. 


20 


A “NOVEL” 


NOVEL. 


“ What  has  become  of  the  Duchess’s  wedding-  | 
dress?”  asked  Lyndhurst. 

“Is  it  not  here?”  asked  the  Duke.  “I  never 
thought  of  that ; we  will  ring  and  ask  her  maid.” 

The  maid  could  give  no  information ; she  thought 
her  Grace  had  gone  away  in  it. 

“ I suppose  she  did  ; but,  if  so,  I cannot  imagine 
how  it  wras  that  she  has  not  been  traced,”  said 
Tredegar.  “ People  do  not  generally  walk  about 
the  streets  in  full  bridal  attire.” 

As  he  spoke,  he  ran  his  hand  along  the  paneled 
wainscoting  of  the  room,  and  suddenly,  without  any 
warning,  one  panel  flew  open,  disclosing  a dark 
background,  with  something  white  in  a corner. 

“Good  heavens!”  said  the  Duke,  “what  is 
that  ? ” 

To  draw  it  out  was  the  work  of  a second.  It 
was  poor  Seringa’s  wedding  toilette,  thrust  in 
hastily,  as  if  by  hurried,  trembling  hands.  Every- 
thing was  there,  to  the  magnificent  jewels  she  had 
worn,  her  bouquet  and  her  dainty  lace  handker- 
chief. 

“ What  does  it  all  mean  ? ” said  the  Duke, 
aghast. 

“ It  means  that  the  Duchess  changed  her  dress 
before  she  left,  or  was  taken  away,”  said  Lynd- 
hurst, gravely;  “and  that  she  must  have  had 
some  note  or  message  to  cause  her  to  make  an  ex- 
cuse to  get  rid  of  her  maid  while  she  changed  her 
things.” 

“ What  fiend  has  taken  her  from  me  ? ” said  the 
Duke. 

“That  we  will  never  rest  until  we  find  out,  so 
help  us  Heaven,”  replied  Lyndhurst,  solemnly. 


A “novel”  novel. 


21 


CHAPTER  III. 

By  Mrs.  Laugliton. 

THE  OPEN  PANEL. 

“ If  she  be  not  honest,  chaste  and  true, 

There’s  no  man  happy  . . . 

If  you  think  other, 

Remove  your  thought.”— Othello. 

For  a few  minutes  after  Lyndhurst’s  heartfelt 
words,  the  three  friends  stood  in  silence. 

Then  Derrick  Tredegar  spoke. 

“ Would  it  not  he  as  well/’  he  said,  hesitatingly, 
“ to  let  the  authorities  know  of  our  discovery  here  ? 55 
And  he  looked  from  the  costly  dress,  all  soiled  with 
dust,  to  the  dark  opening  in  the  wall,  where  the 
Mowbray  diamonds  flashed  and  sparkled,  while  the 
faint  fragrance  of  seringa  from  the  bridal  bouquet 
seemed  to  whisper  of  the  fair  woman  whose  loss  had 
left  so  cruel  a blank. 

A flush  rose  to  the  Duke’s  pale  forehead. 

“ No,  a thousand  times  no  ! ” he  cried,  hastily. 
“ I cannot  bear  the  thought  of  those  coarse  men 
tracking  the  footsteps  of  my  poor  darling,  and 
searching  her  life  for  some  hideous  secret.” 

With  a broken  exclamation  of  pain,  he  turned 
away,  and  folding  his  arms  on  the  mantelpiece, 
bowed  his  head  upon  them. 

Tredegar  looked  aghast  at  the  effect  of  his  sim- 
ple words;  but  Clive  Lyndhurst,  laying  his  hand 
on  his  friend’s  shoulder,  with  almost  feminine 
gentleness,  said  : 

You  forget,  my  dear  Mowbray,  that  your  wife 
cannot  have  left  you  of  her  own  free  will.  She  has 


22 


A “novel”  novel. 


either  been  taken  by  force,  or,  what  is  more  likely, 
is  the  dupe  of  some  rascally  plot.  I agree  with 
Tredegar  that  we  ought  to  help  the  detectives  by 
every  means  in  our  power.” 

With  an  effort  at  self-control  the  Duke  stood 
erect.  Then,  with  the  readiness  to  acknowledge  him- 
self in  fault  which  had  won  him  so  many  friends,  he 
grasped  Lyndhurst’s  hand,  saying  quickly  : 

“ You  are  right,  quite  right.  Forgive  my  hasty 
words;  I hardly  know  what  I am  saying.  Will 
you  go  to  Scotland  Yard  for  me  ? ” 

“ Most  certainly,”  replied  Lyndhurst,  heartily 
returning  the  pressure  of  his  friend’s  hand.  “ But 
where  is  Allonby  ? ” 

The  Duke  sank  into  an  armchair,  and  passed  his 
hand  vaguely  across  his  forehead. 

“I  really  do  not  know,”  he  answered,  slowly. 
“ He  did  tell  me  where  he  was  going,  but  I have 
quite  forgotten.  It  is  awfully  stupid  of  me.” 

“ Never  mind,  my  dear  fellow,  don’t  trouble 
yourself  about  it,”  said  Lyndhurst  hurriedly,  really 
alarmed  at  the  expression  on  the  young  man’s  face. 
“ I can,  of  course,  manage  alone  if  I have  your 
authority.  Tredegar  shall  stay  with  you  while  I 
am  gone.” 

He  turned  towards  the  door,  but  at  that  mo. 
ment  an  old  butler  appeared  on  the  threshold,  and 
announced  : 

“ A young  man  from  Scotland  Yard  wishes  to 
see  your  Grace.” 

Clive  Lyndhurst  with  difficulty  restrained  a 
smile.  The  old  man’s  disgust,  that  anyone  from 
Scotland  Yard  should  presume  to  enter  the  house, 
was  written  on  his  face. 


A “ novel”  novel. 


23 


The  Duke  sighed  wearily,  but  at  once  replied, 
“ Show  him  in  here,  Morrison. ” 

Then  turning  to  Lyndhurst,  he  added,  “This 
saves  your  journey.” 

“ Would  you  not  prefer  us  to  leave  you  alone 
with  this  man  ? 55  asked  Tredegar. 

“ Certainly  not,”  exclaimed  Mowbray,  almost 
impatiently;  “he  can  say  nothing  which  will  not 
be  as  safe  in  your  keeping  as  in  my  own.” 

They  waited  in  silence  for  a few  moments.  Then 
the  door  opened  again,  and  Morrison  announced, 
“ Mr.  Bolton,  from  Scotland  Yard.” 

A young  man,  rather  under  the  average  height, 
quietly  entered  the  room.  He  was  very  slight,  of 
pale  complexion,  with  small,  regular  features,  dark 
brown  hair,  and  gray  eyes  with  unusually  large 
pupils — eyes  which,  as  if  conscious  that  they  were 
remarkable,  he  kept  hidden  as  much  as  possible. 

As  the  door  closed  behind  him,  he  bowed — not 
without  a certain  refinement  of  manner — and  said, 
in  a clear,  though  low-toned  voice,  “ Good  evening, 
gentlemen.” 

As  he  bent  his  head,  the  gray  eyes  seemed  to 
take  in  the  whole  room  in  one  rapid  glance,  and 
Lyndhurst,  who  was  observing  the  man  very 
keenly,  catching  the  look,  began  to  hope  that  the 
-case  had  been  entrusted  to  capable  hands. 

“ This  gentleman  was  about  to  give  information 
at  Scotland  Yard  of  the  discovery  we  have  just 
made,”  said  the  Duke,  motioning  with  his  hand, 
first  towards  Lyndhurst  and  then  towards  the  open 
panel.  His  gesture  and  voice  both  betrayed  extreme 
lassitude,  and  it  was  evident  that  the  emotions  of 
the  day  were  telling  acutely  on  his  bodily  strength. 


24  A “ NOVEL  55  NOVEL. 

■ 

“ I am  giad  to  have  come  at  so  opportune  a f 
moment,55  replied  the  young  man  gravely,  “f. 
should  not,  however,  have  intruded  on  your  Grac6 
had  not  my  instructions  been  wanting  in  a very 
important  point,  viz.,  the  dress  in  which  the 
Duchess  of  Mowbray  left  the  house.  I have  only 
just  come  to  town  in  response  to  a telegram  from 
my  chief,  and  therefore  did  not  myself  see  Lord 
Allonby ; but  he  is  reported  to  have  said  that  her 
Grace  was  wearing  her  bridal  dress.  This  seemed 
to  me  improbable,  and,”  with  a glance  towards  the 
bed,  “ I perceive  my  conjecture  was  correct/5 

“ Lord  Allonby  reported  what  we  then  believed 
to  be  true/”  said  the  Duke. 

“That  I quite  understand,  your  Grace,55  an- 
swered the  detective,  “but  reports  made  in  the 
first  moments  of  bewilderment  are  only  too  apt  to 
be  incorrect.  For  instance,  it  is  noted  here,55  and 
he  referred  to  his  pocket-book,  “ that  her  Grace 
look  no  jewelry  with  her  except  a bracelet,  of  which 
the  description  follows ; and  yet,  until  a few  min- 
utes ago,  for  all  anyone  could  say  to  the  contrarj^, 
she  had  carried  away  a fortune  in  diamonds.  In 
fact,  one  might  have  easily  been  led  to  conjecture 
that  those  priceless  gems  had  tempted  some  ruffian 
to  robbery  and  — — 55  he  stopped  short  abruptly, 
for  the  Duke  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  with  a 
stifled  groan.  The  picture  conjured  up  by  those 
quiet  words  was  more  than  he  could  bear  unmoved. 

The  detective  flushed  with  vexation  at  having! 
allowed  his  professional  instincts  to  hurry  him  into 
forgetting  that  he  was  speaking  to  one  who  could  ? 
scarcely  view  matters  in  the  same  equable  light. 
He  waited  a few  seconds  for  the  Duke  to  recover 


A “NOVEL.”  NOVEL.  25 

1 

himself,  and  then  asked  permission  to  question  her 
(rrace’s  maid.  The  hell  was  rung-  and  the  order 
given  for  her  to  be  sent  for. 

Whilst  they  waited.  Derrick  Tredegar  crossed 
the  room,  and,  throwing  open  the  long  French  win- 
dows, stepped  out  on  to  the  iron  staircase  which 
led  to  the  garden.  Lyndhurst  followed  him,  but, 
anxious  not  to  lose  sight  of  the  detective,  remained 
within  the  room. 

Mr.  Bolton  was  quite  aware  of  the  young  man’s 
scrutiny,  and  determined  to  evade  it  if  possible. 
With  one  quick  glance  at  the  Duke,  who  lay  back 
in  his  chair  deadly  pale  and  too  utterly  worn  out  to 
notice  anything,  the  detective  stepped  quietly  to 
the  open  panel,  and,  bending  down,  raised  the  fa- 
mous Mowbray  diamonds  from  the  ground.  For  a 
moment  Jie  stood  with  the  glittering  gems  in  his 
hand,  as  if  his  only  object  was  to  admire  their  won- 
drous luster,  though  the  glance  he  had  cast  into 
the  recess  as  he  took  them  out  had  shown  him 
something  of  much  greater  interest  to  him. 

Placing  the  diamonds  on  the  bed,  he  again 
stooped  down,  and  while  one  hand  drew  forth 
•Seringa’s  lace  handkerchief,  the  other  closed  eagerly 
on  three  small  scraps  of  paper.  As  he  carried  the 
handkerchief  to  the  bed,  a fourth  piece  fluttered  to 
the  ground.  Convinced  that  Lyndhurst  must  have 
noticed  it,  he  picked  it  up  without  any  pretense  of 
concealment,  and  turning  again  to  the  panel, 
brought  out  the  bridal  bouquet,  but  with  nothing 
else  to  reward  his  further  search. 

Crossing  to  the  window,  he  gazed  out  into  the 
night,  as  though  endeavoring  to  pierce  the  dark 
.shadows  of  the  ivy-covered  staircase. 


26 


A “NOVEL”  NOVEL. 


•' 

“ The  light  is  too  deceptive  to  permit  of  any  ex- 
amination out  of  doors,”  said  Lyndhurst,  in  a low 
voice. 

Bolton  bowed  in  silence,  and  at  that  moment 
Ellis,  the  Duchess’s  maid,  entered  the  room.  In  a 
few  words  he  told  her  what  they  wanted ; and  as 
she  searched  the  wardrobe  his  skillful  suggestions 
elicited  the  facts  that  a blue  serge  dress  and  toque, 
a dark  gray  dust  cloak,  a small  black  bag,  and  a 
cash-box  were  missing. 

“ Thank  you,”  he  said,  “ I need  not  detain  you 
longer,”  and  as  she  left  the  room  he  turned  to  the 
Duke  with  the  words  : 

“ I must  now  ask  your  Grace  a few  questions, 
but  will  be  as  brief  as  possible.” 

“ Certainly,”  replied  Mowbray,  evidently  trying 
to  rouse  himself  from  the  apathy  into  which  he  had 

fallen. 

The  detective  crossed  the  room  and  seated  him- 
self at  a small  table.  On  a page  of  his  note-book  he 
spread  out  the  scraps  of  paper,  closely  scrutinizing 
them  even  while  speaking. 

“ Will  your  Grace  tell  me  how  the  Duchess  came 
to  know  the  secret  of  this  panel  ? ” he  asked. 

“ My  sister  must  have  told  her,”  answered  the 
Duke.  “ There  is  no  mystery  about  it ; it  is  merely 
a cupboard  for  valuable  books.  This  room  was  an 
addition  to  the  library  until  my  wife  came  to  stay 
here,  when  it  was  given  her  as  a bedroom,  so 
that  she  might  more  readily  gain  access  to  the 
garden;  for  she  has  been  always  accustomed  to 
rise  early.” 

“ There  was  a few  moments’  silence,  during 
which  Lyndhurst  watched  the  thin,  nervous  finger;? 


A “ novel’7  novel. 


27 


sts  they  pushed  the  pieces  of  paper  now  to  one  side, 
now  to  the  other,  on  the  open  note-book ; then  the 
gray  eyes  were  slowly  raised,  till  they  rested 
steadily  on  the  Duke’s  pale  face. 

“ I ask  your  Grace’s  pardon  if  my  next  questions 
seem  impertinent,”  he  said,  “ but  a detective,  like 
i doctor,  must  know  everything*  if  he  is  to  cure.” 

The  words  seemed  to  recall  the  Duke  to  himself. 

“ I beg  you  will  speak  plainly,  and  to  the  point, 
Mr.  Bolton,”  he  replied,  with  quiet  dignity. 

The  detective  rose  from  his  chair.  “ If  I am 
svrong  in  any  of  the  facts  I am  about  to  state,  will 
pour  Grace  kindly  correct  me  ? ” he  commenced, 
ind  then  continued  quickly : “ I am  told  that 

tiiough  there  was  no  reason  to  doubt  the  fact  of 
tiie  late  Mr.  Arkell’s  death,  his  body  was  never 
bund.” 

The  Duke  bowed  assentingly. 

“ That  on  this  account  his  widow  has  lived  in 
seclusion  for  these  eight  years,  and  that  the  only 
)ffer  of  marriage  which  she  has  entertained  during 
3hat  time  was  your  Grace’s.”  Again  the  Duke 
nade  a sign  of  assent.  “ But  the  Duchess  is 
poung,  and  possesses  exceptional  personal  attrac- 
tions— has  she  during  all  those  years  really  had  no 
lover  ? ” 

The  Duke  sprang  to  his  feet,  an  angry  flush  on 
lis  pale  face. 

“ Is  it  possible  ? ” continued  Bolton,  in  his  quiet 
raice,  “that  she  has  U secret  sufficiently  weighty 
30  cause  her  flight  on  receiving  a threat  to  reveal  it 
30  you  ? Is  it  possible  that  a man  does  exist  who 
las  a prior  claim  to  the  hand  she  bestowed  on  you 
|his  morning  ? ” 


28  A “novel”  novel. 

The  Duke  laughed  bitterly.  f 

“ In  other  words,”  he  exclaimed  hoarsely,  “ dp  J 
believe  that  my  wife  of  an  hour  fled  from  me  with 
her  lover  ? ” Then  turning  to  his  friends,  his  bAn.f 
eyes  blazing  with  fever,  he  cried  out : “ Was  I not 
right  in  saying  that  these  men  were  not  fit  to 
search  her  pure  life  ? Do  you  hear  ? ITe  wishes 
to  take  from  me  the  only  tie  which  holds  me  to  life 
— the  thought  of  her  love  ! Oh,  God  ! what  have 
I done  that  I should  suffer  thus  ? ” 

A ghastly  pallor  spread  over  his  face,  and  before 
either  of  his  friends  could  reach  him  he  fell  heavily 
to  the  ground. 

Tredegar  rushed  into  the  room  and  knelt  beside 
him,  bidding  the  detective,  in  no  measured  words, 
to  go  now  ; he  had  done  all  the  harm  he  could.  But, 
Lyndhurst  grasped  the  young  man’s  arm  as  he 
turned  away.  ' 

“ For  pity’s  sake,”  he  whispered  hurriedly,. 
“ tell  me  what  was  written  on  those  pieces  of  paper 
you  found  within  the  panel.” 

“ I cannot,  sir,”  replied  Bolton  firmly.  “You 
must  leave  the  secret  of  that  torn  note  to  my  dis- 
cretion; and  remember  that  a hasty  word  may 
upset  my  plans.” 

Then,  with  one  pitying  backward  glance  at  the; 
prostrate  figure  over  which  Tredegar  was  leaning,; 
the  detective  left  the  room. 


A “ NOVEL  ” NOVEL.  29 

CHAPTER  IV. 

By  Mrs.  Sparshott. 

DOUBT. 

“ Who  knows  P Not  I ; I can  hardly  vouch 
For  the  truth  of  what  little  I see.” 

Adam  Lindsay  Gordon. 

The  day  after  the  wedding-  arrived.  Bolton,  the 
detective,  had  flashed  his  information  throughout 
the  country,  had  snatched  a short  rest,  and  was  at 
Lord  Allonby’s  house  again  as  soon  as  it  was  suffi- 
ciently light  for  his  purpose, which  was  to  thoroughly 
examine  the  grounds,  commencing  where  he  had  left 
off  the  night  before — at  the  iron  staircase.  With 
keen,  restless  eyes,  he  went  slowly  along  every  walk, 
eagerly  scanning  every  flower  bed,  every  patch  of 
grass.  His  smothered  exclamation  of  disgust  as 
he  completed  his  scrutiny,  betrayed  the  detective’s 
disappointment. 

He  had  expected  to  find  something  here.  Those 
scraps  of  paper  discovered  last  night  were  but  frag- 
ments of  a fragment,  and  he  had  hoped  that,  seeing 
the  Duchess’s  careless  disposal  of  them,  the  re- 
mainder might  possibly  be  scattered  in  the  hurry  of 
her  flight  through  the  grounds. 

Flight,  Bolton  had,  after  reflection,  decided  it 
was ; but  for  the  direction  and  cause,  he  had  yet  to 
search.  If  he  could  but  find  those  missing  pieces, 
they  would  afford  a more  tangible  clew.  “ Had  the 
Duchess  purposely  left  so  much,  and  destroyed  the 
remainder?”  he  pondered.  “No;  that  does  not 
tally  with  the  great  affection  she  was  known  to 
have  for  her  husband.  She  would  not  have  added, 
to  the  cruel  blow  of  her  disappearance,  the  tortures 


30 


A 


NOVEL 


NOVEL. 


< < 


5? 


of  doubt  which  these  fragments  would  have  causec 
him  had  he  seen  them.  In  her  nervous  haste  sh< 
must  have  accidentally  dropped  them.” 

He  stood  thus  thinking,  close  by  a bank  o 
fernery  that  screened  the  door  through  which  th< 
Duchess  must  have  passed,  beautiful,  luxurianl 
ferns,  flanked  by  drooping  dwarf  firs.  As  the  wine 
s^vayed  the  branches,  his  quick  eye  caught  sight  o 
something  which  caused  him  instantly  to  part  th< 
boughs,  and  there,  tightly  rolled  up,  save  the  on< 
straggling  tape  which  had  caught  his  eye,  lay  £ 
gray  cloak.  He  quickly  unrolled  it,  and  felt  in  th< 
pockets,  but  they  were  empty.  Then  as  quickly 
rolling  it  up  again,  he  replaced  it  as  exactly  as  h( 
found  it. 

“ She  won’t  be  found  in  a gray  cloak,  then,”  hi 
muttered.  “ I should  say  she  wore  it  thus  fai 
in  case  any  one  should  see  her,  stripped  it  off  here, 
and  hid  it,  donning  another — for  I’ll  warrant  she 
never  left  with  nothing  over  her  dress.  She  musl 
have  had  some  assistance  from  within  or  without : 
however.  I’ll  soon  know.”  After  glancing  care' 
fully  round,  he  went  to  the  door  and  opened  it,  and 
taking  from  his  pocket  a white  crayon,  he  stooped 
and  made  a small  mark  on  the  step,  closed  t hi 
door  again,  and  waited.  In  about  ten  minutes  i 
low,  peculiar  cough  was  heard  on  the  other  side  oi 
the  wall,  and  a moment  later  a slight,  wiry-look- 
ing  man  stood  with  the  detective  in  the  garden. 

“ Under  this  fir-tree  is  a cloak,”  said  the  latter; 
“ you  must  hide  in  that  clump  of  bushes  and 
watch.” 

The  other  quickly  followed  his  instructions,  and 
Bolton,  having  waited  to  see  if  the  man  had  hid- 

J 


A “ NOVEL 


NOVEL. 


31 


1 den  himself  completely,  left  the  spot,  emerging*  in 
3 sight  of  the  house  from  a different  point  to  that 
where  his  confederate  lay  concealed.  It  was  still 
early,  and  there  being  no  sign  of  life  about,  he 
quitted  the  place.’ ’ 

An  hour  or  two  later  Bolton  returned  to  head- 
quarters to  see  if  any  reports  had  come  to  hand, 
and  he  found  a note  from  Lady  Allonby  requesting 
his  presence. 

Arriving  at  the  house,  he  was  at  once  shown 
into  an  apartment,  where  he  was  soon  joined  by 
Lyndhurst,  who  informed  him  that  the  Duke  lay 
in  bed  delirious  with  fever.  Lad}7  Allonby  then 
entered. 

“We  have  sent  for  you/’  said  her  ladyship, 
“as  we  have  this  morning  received  a letter  from 
the  Duchess.  I fear  it  will  not  be  of  much  assist- 
ance to  you,  but  we  thought  it  best  to  inform  youa 
See,  it  is  here.” 

Bolton  took  the  letter  with  a bow,  and  read  it 
slowly  and  silently.  It  ran  thus  : 

i 

“ My  dear  Husband  : — Forgive  me,  my  dar- 
ling, for  what  I have  done.  God  knows  it  is  as 
hard  for  me  as  you.  The  cup  of  happiness  has  been 
dashed  from  my  lips  as  from  yours,  and  by  a fate 
as  unforeseen  on  my  part  as  on  yours ; but  that 
fate  is  relentless.  I can  never  see  you,  my  love, 
again.  Do  not  seek  me,  for  finding  me  will  be 
harder  to  bear  for  both. — Your  loving  Wife.” 

Bolton  looked  at  the  postmark  on  the  envelope, 
“Charing  Cross,”  then  quietly  laid  the  letter  on 
the  table,  and  waited  for  the  others  to  speak.  Her 
ladyship  at  length  broke  the  silence. 

“ It  is  very  strange  and  terrible.  What  fearful 

I 


32  A “novel”  novel. 

secret  it  is  that  has  caused  her  to  act  thus,  I am 
totally  at  a loss  to  understand.  It  cannot  he  that 
her  former  husband  has  appeared  again,  for  you  see 
she  signs  herself  his  wife,  as  if  to  dispel  any  doubt 
on  that  point.” 

“ And  her  letter  does  not  support  the  other  pos- 
sibility that  has  been  suggested,”  added  Lyndhurst, 
looking  the  detective  steadily  in  the  face. 

“ We  must  find  her,”  said  the  latter,  “ then  we 
may  attain  the  solution  of  the  difficult}'  more  eas- 
ily. At  present,”  turning  to  her  ladyship,  “ we 
have  not  advanced  one  step  ; the  postmark  of  this 
letter  is  no  guide,  and  the  purport  of  its  contents 
leaves  the  cause  of  her  flight  more  mysterio  s than 
ever.  Will  your  ladyship  kindly  give  me  the  ad- 
dress of  the  apartments  lately  occupied  by  the 
Duchess  ? ” he  asked.  Having  obtained  it,  he  took 
his  leave,  and  proceeded  to  the  address  given. 

Arrived  there,  he  asked  to  see  the  landlady,  and 
having  stated  his  business  to  her,  and  his  wish  to 
see  the  Duchess’s  rooms,  she  herself  showed  him 
through  them,  first  the  elegant  little  drawing-room, 
then  the  whole  suite ; some  of  the  rooms  being  still 
in  disorder  from  the  operations  of  packing.  In  an-: 
swer  to  his  numerous  inquiries  as  to  the  habits  and' 
few  visitors  of  the  Duchess,  he  could  obtain  no  in- 
formation of  importance.  As  an  afterthought  he 
asked  to  see  ■ the  maid’s  room,  which  was  in  still 
greater  disorder,  and  the  floor  was  strewn  with 
papers  and  periodicals.  As  he  turned  these  over 
with  the  end  of  his  cane,  he  saw  part  of  an  enve- 
lope with  the  address  of  the  house  he  was  in  writ- 
ten on  it.  He  picked  it  up,  and  noting  the  style  of 
the  wmiting,  a gleam  of  satisfaction  momentarily 


A “novel”  novel.  33 

flitted  across  his  face,  though  he  saw  the  upper 
part,  bearing  the  name  and  stamp,  was  missing. 

“ This  might  be  a little  assistance,”  he  said  to 
his  guide,  “if  I could  find  the  other  part,”  and  so 
saying,  he  proceeded  to  search  for  it,  carefully  pick- 
ing up  every  paper  and  shaking  every  pamphlet,  so 
fcnat  loose  papers  might  fall  out ; but,  after  a long 
task,  his  efforts  were  fruitless. 

“ Can  I see  the  servant  whose  duty  it  is  to  bring 
in  the  letters  ? ” Bolton  asked. 

“ Certainly,  but  we  will  return  to  the  drawing- 
room,” was  the  reply. 

In  a few  moments  the  girl  appeared,  but  in  an- 
swer to  the  question  as  to  whom  letters  in  that 
handwriting  were  addressed,  the  girl  said  she  could 
not  remember  having  seen  any  like  it,  and,  in  an- 
swer to  further  inquiry,  that  although  she  was  sup- 
posed to  look  after  the  letters.  Lady  Seringa’s  maid 
sometimes  took  them  from  the  box  herself.  Noth- 
ing more  could  be  ascertained,  so  the  detective  once 
more  returned  to  Scotland  Yard,  where,  seated  at 
a desk  in  a quiet  office,  he  brought  out  his  note- 
book, and  laid  before  him  the  scraps  of  paper  and  the 
torn  envelope  he  had  found  in  the  maid’s  chamber. 
Yes,  it  was  as  he  had  thought : a careful  compari- 
son of  the  writing  on  both  convinced  him  they  had 
been  written  by  the  same  person,  and  that  person  a 
man.  As  he  was  examining  them  more  closely  under 
the  lamp,  he  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  the 
man  he  had  left  to  watch  the  cloak  in  the  morning. 
' “ Well  ? ” said  Bolton. 

“ It’s  gone  ! ” was  the  laconic  answer. 

“ Ah  ! ” ejaculated  the  other,  with  eager  satis- 
faction. 

I 


34  A “ NOVEL  ” NOVEL. 

“I  got  mighty  tired  of  sticking  behind  thos> 
bushes,  I can  tell  you;  but  at  last,  as  soon  as  i 
grew  dusk,  a girl  sneaked  down  the  path  close  t< 
the  wall,  picked  up  the  cloak  and  carried  it  toward: 
the  house.  I followed  as  closely  as  I dared,  am 
saw  her  mount  the  steps  to  a balcony  and  disappea: 
through  a window.” 

“ How  was  she  dressed,  like  a servant  ? ” 

“ No,  all  in  black,  or  a dark  dress,  at  any  rate 
and  she  wore  no  cap  or  apron.” 

“ Could  you  see  what  she  was  like  ? ” 

“ I couldn’t  see  her  face,  but  she  was  of  median 
height  and  a good  figure.” 

“ All  right,  that  will  do,”  said  Bolton,  as  he  dis 
missed  the  man. 

He  glanced  over  the  reports  he  had  just  noted 
down.  “ So  the  Duchess’s  assistance  came  from 
within,  in  the  person  of  her  maid,  evidently,  and  flu 
cause  from  without,”  he  mused.  “ There  seems  tc 
have  been  more  foresight  than  the  letter  I saw  this 
morning  would  make  believe,  for  here  is  direct  evi- 
dence of  a concerted  plan  between  the  mistress  and 
her  maid.” 

He  turned  to  the  fragments  of  paper  again  and 
read  to  himself — 

; 

meet  me 
remember 

The  words  evidently  formed  the  commencement 
of  two  lines,  as  after  the  word  “ me  ” there  was  an 
up-stroke  indicating  the  beginning  of  another  word. 


I 


A “NOVEL”  NOVEL.  35 

CHAPTER  V. 

By  Miss  Ernestine  Tate. 

TOO  LATE. 

“No  light,  but  rather  darkness  visible.” —Milton. 

There  remained  nothing*  for  Bolton  to  do  but  to 
follow  up  the  idea  that-  had  suggested  itself  to  him 
during  the  day9s  weary  search,  that  the  Duchess 
had  had  meetings  from  within  the  house. 

It  was  necessary  for  him  to  repair  again  to  the 
Duke  of  Mowbray’s,  and  not  to  lose  time  was  of  the 
greatest  importance,  as  the  object  of  their  search 
was  shown  by  the  letter  read  that  morning  to  lx* 
near  at  hand.  He  accordingly  dispatched  a note  1 o 
Lady  Allonby,  to  ascertain  at  what  hour  he  couiu 
interview  the  maid  without  her  having  the  slightest 
hint  of  his  intentions. 

He  compared  again  and  again  the  handwriting 
on  the  envelope  found  in  the  maid’s  room  in  the 
suite  of  apartments  he  had  so  recently  visited,  and 
still  could  only  come  to  the  one  conclusion  that  they 
looked  as  if  written  by  the  same  hand,  and  judging 
by  appearances,  most  likely  a man’s.  But  whose  ? 
that  was  the  question. 

In  the  oak-paneled  cupboard  he  had  found  three 
or  four  pieces  of  paper  ; he  had  matched  two,  mak- 
ing the  words,  as  we  know  : “ meet  me  re- 

member.” 

But  on  examining  the  other  two,  he  could  just 
trace  the  end  of  a word  “ ath  with  the  letter  “ o ” 
the  word  “oath”  would  be  complete.  Had  the 
fragment  not  been  missing  it  would  probably  read 
“ remember  your  oath.”  “Was  the  Duchess,”  he 


36  A “ NOVEL  ” NOVEL. 

pondered,  “ the  victim  of  some  dire  fatality,  and 
had  she,  in  a weak,  unguarded  moment  (not  know- 
ing the  nature  of  the  sacrifice  demanded),  given  her 
word  to  go,  whenever  called,  to  the  person  who 
wrote  that  paper  ? It  is  a well-known  fact  that 
people  have  acted  from  a mistaken  notion  of  duty 
in  such  a Quixotic  manner ; then  why  not  she  ? ” ' 

He  read  again  the  copy  of  the  Duchess’s  letter 
to  the  Duke,  and  it  seemed  to  bear  him  out  in  this 
new  idea.  To  search  then  for  the  man  who  could 
have  such  a hold  over  her  was  the  next  thing  to  be 
done ; and  the  first  step  towards  that  was  to  inter- 
rogate the  maid  as  to  the  life  the  Duchess  had  led 
during  her  eight  years’  comparative  retirement 
from  the  world. 

To  learn  as  much  as  was  possible  of  the  family 
of  the  missing  wife,  also  something  of  the  husband, 
whom  everyone  seemed  to  be  quite  sure  was  dead.  i 
But  was  he  ? 

“Was  it  father  or  husband  that  had  brought 
this  misery  on  an  innocent  woman — and  had  no 
sword  of  Damocles  hung  over  her  head  during  those 
eight  years  ? Was  she  or  was  she  not  blameless  in 
joining  her  fate  to  that  of  the  Duke  of  Mowbray  at 
the  altar  ? ” These  thoughts  followed  one  another 
in  rapid  succession  through  the  active  brain  of  the 
detective. 

He  was  interested  in  the  case,  and  his  profes- 
sional prestige  as  well  as  duty  compelled  him  to  the 
utmost  to  search  for  any  clew,  however  slight,  that 
would  be  likely  to  elucidate  the  mystery.  ■> 

A note  was  here  handed  to  him.  “ That’s  well; 
the  sooner  the  better.  Say  I will  be  there  by  ten 
o’clock  punctually,  and  send  Dawson  to  me.” 


A “ NOVEL  ” NOVEL. 


37 


The  man  who  was  with  him  in  the  morning*,  and 
saw  the  disappearance  of  the  gray  cloak,  came  in. 

“ I am  going  to  the  Duke’s  house ; you  are  to 
come  with  me,  and  tell  Lane  to  follow  at  once. 
You  are  to  loiter  about  near  the  servants’ entrance. 
If  any  man  comes  out,  Lane  is  to  follow  him  and 
learn  his  business ; if  any  woman,  you  are  to  fol- 
low her  yourself  and  report  to  me  at  headquarters, 
at  whatever  hour  it  may  be,  the  results.” 

“ It  shall  be  done,  ” said  the  man,  and  with- 
drew. 

“ Mr.  Bolton,  my  lady,”  said  Morrison,  the  but- 
ler, as  he  held  back  the  heavy  curtains  for  the  de- 
tective to  enter. 

“ Very  well,  Morrison  ; stay  — send  Lady 
Seringa’s  own  maid  to  me  at  once,  and  I par- 
ticularly request  you  do  not  tell  her  any  one  is 
here.” 

When  the  maid  entered  the  room  Lady  Allonby 
said  : 

“ Maillard,  I want  you  to  help  us  all  you  can  by 
telling  this  gentleman  anything  you  know  of  your 
mistress’s  movements  lately,  and  by  answering  any 
questions  he  may  think  fit  to  ask  you.” 

“ Yes,  my  lady.” 

“ How  long  have  you  lived  with  the  Duchess  ? 99 
asked  Bolton. 

“ Since  her  marriage.” 

“ How  long  did  she  live  with  Mr.  Arkell  ? ” 

“ Only  a few  months.” 

“ Was  he  kind  to  her  ? ” 

“ No ! he  ill-used  her  shamefully,  and  one  day 
after  a heavy  loss  at  Derby  races  they  had  a fear- 


38 


A 


“ NOVEL  ” NOVEL. 


ful  scene.  He  left  her,  and  to  my  knowledge  has 
never  seen  her  since.” 

“ You  are  quite  sure  ? ” 

“ Quite,  sir.” 

“ Would  you  know  him  again,  even  if  dis- 
guised ? ” 

“ Yes,  sir  ; I think  I should.” 

“How?” 

“ He  had,  except  in  moments  of  passion,  an  un- 
usually sweet  voice  for  a man,  and  he  had  a mole 
over  the  left  eyebrow.” 

“Thank  you,”  said  Bolton.  “You  have  an- 
swered those  questions  very  nicely ; hut  I want  you 
to  answer  me  one  or  two  more.  I won’t  keep  you 
long.” 

While  searching  about  in  his  pocket-book,  ap- 
parently for  some  papers,  he  asked,  quite  care- 
lessly : 

“ When  did  Lady  Seringa  see  Lord  de  Yere 
last  ? ” 

A momentary  glance  gave  him  the  satisfaction 
of  seeing  the  girl’s  lips  involuntarily  twitch,  and 
that  as  she  answered  with  a slight  effort  of  uncon- 
cern, she  went  a shade  paler. 

“I  don’t  know  any  one  of  that  name,  sir, 
amongst  my  lady’s  visitors.” 

“What,  not  know,  my  girl,  that  your  mistress 
had  a visitor  of  that  name,  and  that  he  was  her 
father  ? ” 

“ No,  sir ! I did  not  know  all  my  lady’s  busi- 
ness.” 

“You  know  she  has  a father  ? ” 

“ Yes,  sir,  I — I believe  she  has,”  she  stammered. 

“ Do  you  know  why  he  lives  abroad  instead  of 


A “ novel”  novel.  39 

in  England,  and  how  it  came  about  that  he  was  not 
at  his  daughter’s  wedding  ? ” 

“ No,  I do  not,”  said  the  girl,  impatiently,  as 
she  flashed  an  indignant  glance  at  him. 

“ Now,  don’t  get  cross ; I only  want  to  help 
your  mistress,  and  not  annoy  her.  Tell  me,  did  any 
one  give  you  a letter  to  give  to  her  on  her  wedding 
morning?  ” 

“No,  no;  nobody  did,”  said  the  girl,  reluct- 
antly ; “ and  I can’t  tell  you  any  more  if  you  ques- 
tion me  all  night.  I only  wish  I could  find  her.” 

“ Tell  me,  did  she  always  live  very  quietly  ? ” 
“Yes,  sir;  she  had  scarcely  any  visitors  in  the 
country.  She  lived  sometimes  in  London  part  of 
the  year,  sometimes  she  went  abroad.” 

“Did  she  always  take  you  with  her ? ” 

“ Nearly  always,  sir.” 

“ Tliank  you,  that  will  do ; as  you  can’t  tell  me 
any  more  you  may  go,  as  I am  going  to  talk  to 
Lady  Allonby.  Before  you  go  tell  me,  do  you  know 
that  hand- writing  ? ” showing  her  the  torn  enve- 
lope. The  girl  shook  her  head,  but  made  no  reply, 
and  hurriedly  left  the  room,  as  if  afraid  of  being 
asked  more. 

“Ah!”  he  said  to  himself,  “she  knows  more 
than  she  will  tell,  and  like  the  description  of  the 
woman  that  took  the  cloak,  too.” 

“ Lady  Allonby,  the  library  is,  I believe,  the  end 
wing  of  the  north  side  of  the  house,  is  it  not  ? ” 
“Yes,”  said  Lady  Allonby,  “the  window  and 
door  of  the  room  used  by  the  Duchess  looked  on,  as 
you  know,  to  the  garden,  and  the  library  windows 
are  at  right  angles  to  it.” 

“ Is  there  a veranda  round  that  side  of  the 


40 


A “NOVEL” 


NOVEL. 


house,  and  could  anyone  get  in  through  one  of  the 
windows  without  being  seen  from  the  other  side  of 
the  house  ? ” 

“Yes,  I think  so;  but  come  and  see.  We  can  go 
up  the  other  staircase  ; we  shall  not  meet  anyone.” 

They  examined  the  library  thoroughly,  and  Bol- 
ton made  in  his  note-book  a rough  sketch  of  that 
wing  of  the  house. 

All  that  night  he  waited  up  for  Dawson. 
Towards  early  morning  he  threw  himself  down  on 
a bench  to  snatch  an  hour  or  two’s  sleep. 

About  twenty  minutes  past  seven  he  was 
aroused  by  Dawson,  who,  nearly  breathless,  told 
him  that  he  had  discovered  Lady  Seringa’s  where- 
abouts by  tracking  the  maid . 

“We  have  not  a moment  to  lose,  sir ; she  leaves 
London,  Charing  Cross,  by  tlie  Continental  train; 
leaves  at  8:40.  I have  a cab  waiting.” 

Bolton  got  his  hat,  and  dashed  madly  into  the 
cab.  “ Drive  like  the  devil,  and  I’ll  make  it  worth 
your  while,  cabby.  8:40,  Charing  Cross.” 

“ All  right,  sir.” 

They  arrived  at  the  station.  Bolton,  followed 
by  Dawson,  rushed  through  the  barrier,  and  just 
saw  the  train  moving. 

Bolton  saw  the  maid  looking  out  of  the  carriage 
window ; Lady  Seringa  leaning  back  very  pale  and 
inanimate  ; and — was  he  in  his  senses  ? — a tall, 
elderly  man  talking  to  the  maid. 

“ Stop  the  train,”  shouted  the  detective,  “ in  the 
Queen’s  name.” 

“ Too  late  ! ” shouted  the  guard,  as  they  steamed 
out  of  the  station,  leaving  Bolton  and  Dawson  pant- 
ing for  breath. 


A “NOVEL” 


NOVEL. 


41 


CHAPTER  YI. 

By  Mrs . G . B . Bur  gin. 

The  Duchess  of  Mowbray  leaned  back  with 
closed  eyes.  She  did  not  speak  a word  to  the  tall, 
aristocratic  man  opposite.  That  mysterious  being*, 
after  giving  some  directions  to  the  maid,  relapsed 
into  silence  until  they  reached  Dover.  At  Do- 
ver he  again  spoke  to  the  maid,  bidding  her  re- 
place the  Duchess’s  veil.  Once  on  board  the  boat, 
the  Duchess  retired  to  her  cabin,  remaining  there 
until  the  vessel  reached  Calais. 

When  she  did  appear  on  deck,  she  was  even 
more  feeble  and  languid  than  before.  The  tall  man 
came  forward,  but  she  rejected  his  proffered  arm 
with  a shudder,  and  moved  slowly  to  the  train  in 
waiting.  She  seemed  to  be  in  a dream,  as  one  who 
is  stupefied  by  some  great  shock. 

“ Peste /”  muttered  the  aristocratic  stranger,, 
“ Am  I to  have  all  my  trouble  for  nothing  ? It 
would  hardly  do  for  her  to  die  on  my  hands.” 

He  carefully  placed  the  Duchess  in  the  carriage, 
and  strolled  off  to  a smoking  compartment,  scarcely 
noticing  a slim,  clerical-looking  man,  wearing  green 
goggles,  who  entered  the  same  carriage  as  that  oc- 
cupied by  the  Duchess. 

Bolton  had  for  a moment  almost  lost  his  pres- 
ence of  mind  at  Charing  Cross.  The  prize  was  so 
nearly  in  his  hands,  and  at  the  moment  of  victory 
he  had  arrived  too  late.  Then  he  began  to  think 
that  his  attempt  to  stop  the  train  had  escaped  no- 
tice by  the  people  whom  it  principally  concerned » 
Was  it  yet  too  late  to  follow  the  Duchess  ? His 


42  A “novel”  novel. 

professional  pride  came  to  his  aid.  Was  he,  Bol- 
ton, the  one  man  of  Scotland  Yard  whose  career 
had  never  been  marred  by  a failure,  to  be  duped 
and  outwitted  by  that  blase , elderly  aristocrat,  Lord 
de  Vere  ? Never  ! He  would  rather  throw  up  his 
calling'  and  retire  into  obscurity.  The  casual 
glimpse  of  the  elderly  stranger  convinced  him  that 
he  could  be  none  other  than  the  Duchess’s  father. 
He  would  follow  them  to  the  bitter  end,  and  un- 
ravel this  mystery  which  was  killing  the  Duke  of 
Mowbray.  The  Duchess  remained  passive  in  the 
hands  of  her  father,  but  the  lassitude  of  her  atti- 
tude as  the  train  steamed  swiftly  out  of  the  station 
convinced  Bolton  that  she  was  suffering  from  some 
great  grief.  The  maid  was  obviously  acting  in  con- 
cert with  Lord  de  Yere ; no  help  could  be  expected 
from  her. 

Hastily  drawing  the  Charing  Cross  station- 
master  aside,  Bolton  rapidly  stated  his  calling,  and 
that  it  was  utterly  imperative  he  should  catch  the 
Dover  train.  The  station-master  was  a man  of 
action. 

“ I can  have  an  engine  ready  for  you  in  three 
minutes,”  he  said.  “You  will  easily  catch  the 
boat,  if  you  can  stand  the  engine.  Sea-sickness  is 
nothing  to  it.” 

“ The  engine  ! ” said  the  usually  calm  detective ; 
“ I have  been  on  worse  places  than  an  engine.” 

He  hurriedly  seized  a satchel  from  his  assistant, 
and  with  quick  fingers  had  completed  his  make-up 
ere  the  engine  came  sliding  out  of  the  siding.  A 
few  deft  lines  round  the  mouth,  giving  it  the  ap- 
pearance of  patient  suffering,  made  him  seem  twenty 
years  older.  A wig  of  smooth,  straight  hair  and 


A “novel”  novel. 


43 


a pair  of  blue  spectacles  completed  the  disguise. 
'The  subordinate’s  soft  hat,  on  top  of  the  wig,  looked 
as  if  it  had  never  known  another  head.  Bolton  ap- 
peared to  be  an  overworked  curate,  about  to  start 
for  his  summer  holidays. 

At  first  the  engine  moved  slowly  and  pleasantly 
enough.  Bolton  wondered  that  there  should  be 
anything  unpleasant  about  it.  Then  the  engineer 
opened  the  throttle,  and  with  a bound,  as  of  a high- 
mettled  racer  speeding  for  life  or  death,  the  engine 
shot  forward  along  the  level  track.  There  was 
nothing  to  steady  it  behind  but  the  tender.  It  was 
fortunate  for  Bolton  that  he  had  made  all  his 
preparations,  for  both  his  hands  were  required  to 
hold  on  as  the  engine  plunged  and  bounded  along 
at  full  speed. 

“ I can’t  get  another  ounce  out  of  her  without 
leaving  the  track,”  said  the  driver,  as  they  flew  on- 
ward. He  moved  about  in  the  cab,  polishing  up  the 
brasswork,  and  humming  a tune  with  what  ap- 
peared to  Bolton  a supreme  contempt  for  his  own 
and  other  people’s  lives. 

“ Isn’t  it  rather  risky  work  ? ” said  Bolton, 
presently  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  the  engine  having 
very  nearly  left  the  line. 

The  driver  poked  the  fire  and  laughed.  He  re- 
minded Bolton  of  Mephistopheles.  “ If  you  don’t 
like  it,  you  can  get  off,”  said  the  driver ; “I  stay 
where  I am.” 

“ I’ll  stay  where  I am  if  lean,”  said  Bolton,  and 
he  did. 

The  driver  ran  the  engine  on  a siding  at  Dover, 
and  looked  appreciatively  at  the  sovereign  which 
Bolton  slipped  into  his  hand. 


44 


A “novel”  novel. 


“ It  was  worth  that,”  he  said,  reflectively.  “I 
thought  we  had  jumped  the  track  once,  but  my 
orders  were  to  get  you  to  Dover  dead  or  alive  ; and 
there’s  the  boat.  Shall  I wait  for  you  ? ” 

“No,  thanks,”  said  Bolton,  wishing  that  he  had 
given  the  driver  two  sovereigns  instead  of  one. 
“If  I ever  want  you  again,  I’ll  let  you  know.” 

“He  stood  it  pretty  well,”  said  the  driver  to 
himself.  “ I never  carried  a detective  before,  and 
I did  make  her  wobble  a little.” 

Bolton  stole  on  board  the  boat  without  exciting 
observation.  Lord  de  Yere  strolled  past  him  two 
or  three  times,  smoking  a cigar.  He  glanced  with 
ill-concealed  scorn  at  the  miserable  being  huddled 
up  in  a corner,  little  knowing  of  the  terrible  ride 
which  Bolton  had  endured.  “ I rather  think,” 
said  Bolton  to  himself,  “ that  it  will  be  my  turn  to 
be  scornful  later  on.  Your  lordship’s  undisguisedly 
shady  antecedents  have  not  escaped  my  watchful 
care.  It  was  a bold  thing  of  you  to  appear  in  En- 
gland at  all  just  now.  There  are  one  or  two  little 
matters  against  you  which  have  a somewhat  ugly 
look.  However,  those  can  wait.” 

To  the  detective’s  great  relief.  Lord  de  Vere, 
after  seeing  his  daughter  comfortably  ensconced  in 
a corner,  went  off  to  smoke,  first  whispering  a few 
words  to  the  maid,  who  nodded  her  head  in  reply. 
He  did  see  Bolton  getting  into  the  carriage,  but 
looked  upon  him  as  a harmless  clerical  lunatic  at 
large,  bent  upon  the  mild  dissipation  of  fishing  in 
Normandy  after  a preliminary  flutter  in  Paris. 

Bolton  sat  down  by  the  side  of  the  maid,  who 
curled  herself  up  comfortably,  and  was  soon  ab- 
sorbed in  a red-backed  novel,  with  Zola’s  name 


A “ novel”  novel. 


45 


figuring  conspicuously  on  the  cover.  This  trait  did 
not  escape  the  keen-eyed  detective’s  notice.  “ She 
is  a fast  little  hussy,  and  has  been  bribed  by  Lord 
de  Vere,”  he  said.  “So  much  the  worse  for  her. 
A headache  is  no  more  than  she  deserves.  I won- 
der if  we  shall  come  to  a tunnel  soon.” 

Had  the  unfortunate  maid  known  what  was  com- 
ing, she  would  probably  not  have  found  “La 
Terre  ” so  interesting.  The  innocent-looking  curate 
was  fumbling  about  with  his  handkerchief,  and 
reached  across.as  if  to  open  the  Avindow.  Then  a 
strong  hand  seized  her,  a handkerchief  was  thrust 
against  her  somewhat  pretty  little  nose,  and  she 
was  chloroformed  before  she  could  realize  what  had 
-happened. 

Bolton  leisurely  placed  the  girl  at  full  length  on 
the  seat  of  the  carriage.,  and  waited  until  the  train 
emerged  from  the  tunnel  before  speaking  to  the 
Duchess.  He  pitched  the  novel  out  of  the  window. 

“ Pardon  me,  your  Grace,”  he  said  deferentially, 
as  the  train  emerged  from  the  tunnel,  “but  we 
shall  be  in  Paris  in  half  an  hour,  and  I have  much 
to  say  to  you.  I am  a detective  from  Scotland 
Yard.” 

The  Duchess  flung  back  her  veil,  Avith  a quivering 
gesture  born  of  extreme  surprise.  “Too  late,  too 
late  ! ” she  moaned.  “ No  one  can  help  me  now  ! 99 

“ Pardon  me  if  I suggest  that  the  time  is  ex- 
tremely short,”  said  Bolton.  “ I have  chloroformed 
your  maid,  and  do  not  wish  to  have  to  renew  the 
operation.” 

“ The  Duke,  what  of  him  ? ” asked  the  Duchess, 
her  beautiful  eyes  filling  with  tears.  “ He  does  not 
believe- — he  does  not  suspect ” 


46 


A “novel”  novel. 


“ His  Grace  believes  nothing1,  suspects  nothing, 
to  your  prejudice,”  returned  the  detective  earnestly. 
“If  he  did  so  I should  not  be  here.” 

“ Is  he  well  ? ” inquired  the  Duchess.  “ How 
does  he  bear  my  absence  ? ” 

Bolton  endeavored  to  evade  her  inquiries,  but 
unsuccessfully. 

“ I see  that  he  is  ill,”  said  the  Duchess.  “ Tell 
me  the  worst  at  once.  I can  bear  anything  now.” 

“ His  health  is  not  seriously  affected,”  said  the 
detective,  thinking  that,  if  she  kne\y  the  truth,  this 
pale  and  beautiful  woman  would  fade  away  beneath 
the  misfortunes  which  had  overwhelmed  her.  “ The 
Duke,  however,  has  suffered  greatly  from  your 
mysterious  disappearance,  and  the  surest  and  most 
effectual  remedy  he  could  receive  would  be  your 
return  to  him.  Can  you  not  confide  in  me  ? This 
mysterious  secret  which  is  crushing  you  must  ulti-  . 
mately  become  known.  The  Duke  will  not  rest 
until  he  finds  you  again.  What  am  I to  say  to 
him  ? ” 

“ Say,”  wailed  the  unhappy  woman,  wringing 
her  beautiful  hands,  “ say  to  him  that  he  must  pray 
to  God  to  help  us  both — that  I am  forbidden  by 
oath  to  reveal  my  secret.  Give  him  this  ring,  and 
tell  him  that  I can  never  see  him  again.  If  he  loves 
me  truly  he  must  never  wish  to  look  upon  my  face. 
Bid  him  forget  the  past  as  if  it  had  never  been. 
Say  to  him  that  until  death  closes  my  unhappy 
eyes,  and  I go  down  alone  into  its  dark  valley,  my 
secret  can  never  be  revealed.  Then  he  shall  know, 
but  not  before.  I dare  not  break  my  oath.” 

She  handed  the  detective  the  amethyst  from  her 
finger,  and  wept  passionately. 


1 


A “novel”  novel.  47 

“ It  is  now  almost  too  late  to  attempt  to  alter 
your  Grace’s  decision,”  said  Bolton,  sorrcr^fely. 
“ All  I can  do  is  to  obey  your  commands  Jutis 
girl  will  soon  revive,  and  we  are  close  to  Faris. 
Let  me  implore  you  to  reconsider  your  decision.” 

“ It  is  useless,”  said  the  Duchess,  firmly.  “ The 
sins  of  others  have  woven  me  in  a net,  from  the 
meshes  of  which  there  is  no  escaping.  I thank 
you  for  the  courage  and  zeal  you  have  displayed  in 
thus  following  me,  but  you  run  a very  great  risk 
should ” 

She  hesitated. 

“ Lord  de  Vere  find  me  in  this  carriage  without 
a disguise,”  said  Bolton.  “However-,  I am  pre- 
pared for  that.  At  present  nothing  is  left  for  me 
but  to  return  to  England,  and  report  what  has 
happened.” 

“I  cannot  sufficiently  thank  you,”  said  the 
Duchess.  “ Can  you  persuade  that  wretched  girl 
she  has  had  a fit,  or  something  of  that  sort  ? ” 

“ Certainly,”  said  the  detective,  busying  himself 
with  the  Duchess’s  scent-bottle. 

The  girl  gave  a sigh  and  sat  up,  pressing  her 
hand  to  her  head. 

“ My  poor  child,”  said  a droning  voice  from  the 
corner,  “ I fear  you  have  been  unwell,  but  by  the 
aid  of  Providence  you  are  now  restored.  I will  en- 
deavor to  seek  a physician  to  minister  unto  you,” 
and  Bolton  glided  out  of  the  carriage  before  Lord 
de  Y ere  could  reach  it. 

“It  was  better,”  mused  the  detective,  “to  let 
her  think  that  I return  to  England  ; but  I will 
rescue  her,  and  unravel  this  mystery,  or  never  take 
up  another  case.  How  lovely  she  looked,  her  great 


48  A “'novel”  novel. 

violet  eyes  swimming  in  tears  ! I had  to  open  the 
carriage  windows,  or  that  girl  would  have  smelt 
the  chloroform.  Artful  little  hussy ! I am  sure 
she  is  mixed  up  in  the  affair.” 

He  followed  the  party  at  a respectful  distance, 
then  hailed  a fiacre,  and  shadowed  them  to  a quiet 
little  house  in  the  suburbs.  “ Good,”  he  said,  rub- 
bing his  hands ; the  Duchess  is  evidently  too  unwell 
to  travel  for  some  days.  Now  for  the  Prefecture  of 
Police.  I have  them  fast.” 

But  Bolton  was  too  sanguine.  When  he  re- 
turned later  in  the  day  from  the  Prefecture  of 
Police  it  was  only  to  be  informed  by  the  official 
placed  under  his  orders  that  the  house  was  empty. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

By  Miss  Emma  Wylie. 

Bolton  returned  to  the  Prefecture  of  Police. 

He  emerged  half  an  hour  later,  a sadder  and  a 
wiser  man. 

Shady  as  the  English  record  of  Lord  de  Vere’s 
antecedents  might  be,  it  was  yet  virtuous  compared 
with  that  the  French  Prefect  showed  him. 

When  Bolton,  disgusted  and  angry  that  the 
Duchess  had  been  spirited  away  under  the  very 
eyes  of  the  watcher,  and  that  the  man  had  appar- 
ently not  the  faintest  knowledge  of  the  direction 
taken  by  the  fugitives,  complained  to  the  Prefect, 
that  man  of  shrugs  and  eyebrows  looked  profoundly 
indifferent,  but  when  Bolton,  irritated  by  his  airs 
and  shrugs,  said  sharply  : “ You  have  let  one  of 
the  greatest  rascals  living  escape  you,”  he  turned 
a more  attentive  eye  upon  the  English  detective. 


A “ NOVEL ” NOVEL.  49 

“ Vraiment ! And  his  name  ? ” 

“Lord  de  Vere;  but  I know  he  has  several 
other  names,  and  as  many  disguises.” 

The  Frenchman  started,  flushed  angrily : 

“Lord  de  Yere  ! Ce  n’est  pas  possible  ! II  ne 
saurait  oser ! Monsieur,  you  have  been  deceived ; 
Lord  de  Yere  dare  not  appear  in  Paris ” 

“ Dare  or  not,  he  has  been  hereyand  apparently 
has  escaped.” 

The  Prefect  glared  angrily  at  Bolton:  “Had 
you  been  wise  enough  to  tell  me  your  case  was  of 
some  importance,  instead  of  making  it  .appear  an 
ordinary  trumpery  case  of  surveillance,  I would 
have  sent  you  another  man.  Your  insular  caution, 
Monsieur,  has  deprived  me  of  the  pleasure  of  catch- 
ing the  greatest  rogue  in  Europe  ! Listen  ! ” 

Furiously  turning  over  the  pages  of  a great 
book  lying  on  the  desk  near  him,  the  Prefect 
rapidly  read  out  two  or  three  paragraphs,  then, 
turning  over  another  : 

“Attendez  done!  e’est  ga,  et  ga  ! ” Then  as 
furiously  banging  the  book  back  into  its  place,  he 
rang  the  bell  sharply. 

A being  who  looked  like  an  embodied  interroga- 
tion answered  his  summons. 

In  a low  voice  the  Prefect  conveyed  his  instruc- 
tions to  him,  concluding  with  : “ Bring  me  the  an- 
swer here  in  ten  minutes.”  The  silent  one  disap- 
peared. 

“ Monsieur,”  said  the  Prefect  as  the  door  closed, 
u }Tou  were  too  reserved,  too — pardon  ! — self-confi- 
dent. Now  that  I understand  who  the  mauvais  sujet 
really  is  that  you  are  in  pursuit  of,  I think  I can 
help  you.  He  is,  I believe,  likely  to  make  Berlin 


50 


A “ NOVEL  ” NOVEL. 


his  next  resting-  place.  He  is  as  well  known  and  as 
much  required  in  Berlin  as  here,  or  as  in  St.  Peters- 
burg-. In  a few  moments  I shall  hear.  In  the 
meantime,  do  you  know  Berlin  at  all  ? ” 

“I  have  been  there  once.” 

“ Do  you  speak  German  ? ” 

“Yes,  fairly  well.” 

“ Understand  it  thoroughly  ? ” 

“ Yes,  I think  I may  say  that.” 

“ Do  you  know  Herr  Gustav  Lendorf  ? ” 

“ No,  hut  I have  heard  of  him  as  being-  the 
‘ Genius  of  Private  Inquiry.’  ” 

The  Prefect  nodded. 

“ I will  give  you  a line  to  him— he  is  under  some 
little  obligation  to  me — will  do  his  best  for  you ; 
but,  Monsieur,  no  half  tales  and  half  confidences* 
if  you  leave  your  colleague  in  the  dark,  do  not 
grumble  that  he  loses  his  way.” 

As  the  Prefect  spoke,  he  tore  out  a page  froni 
his  note-book,  hastily  wrote  a few  lines,  and  en- 
closed them  in  an  envelope,  which  he  sealed  with  an 
elaborate  magnificence,  and  handed  to  the  detective 
as  the  door  opened.  The  silent  being  advanced  and 
placed  a paper  on  the  desk  before  the  Prefect,  who* 
rapidly  glanced  it  over,  waved  the  man  out  of  the 
room,  and,  turning  to  Bolton,  said  : 

“ As  I thought,  en  route  for  Berlin ; in  fact,  by 
this  time  they  are  nearly  there.  Follow  them.  Do 
not  attempt  to  worst  Lord  de  Vere  as  you  would  a 
less  accomplished  rascal.  Trust  yourself  less.  Mon- 
sieur, in  this  case.  Go  to  Lendorf.  He  knowrs  the 
gentleman,  and  can  tell  you  his  haunts.  A fine  fel- 
low, Lendorf — adroit — a fine  fellow,  Lendorf.  Adieu, 
Monsieur,  adieu,  au  re  voir  ! ’ ’ 


A “ novel”  novel. 


51 


In  a very  short  time  Bolton  had  almost  over- 
come his  keen  disappointment  at  the  flight  of  the 
Duchess,  and  was  making  fresh  plans  by  which  to 
entrap  her  wretched,  rascally  father,  and  restore 
her  to  freedom  and  love. 

Mechanically  he  took  his  ticket  at  the  bustling, 
noisy  station,  mechanically  he  threw  himself  into  a 
dark  corner  of  the  railway  carriage,  still  in  the  dis- 
guise of  the  mild-looking  curate,  and  in  less  time 
than  it  takes  to  tell  it  the  detective  was  fast  asleep, 
oblivious  of  time,  of  noise,  of  place;  Spite  of  the 
guttural  complaints  and  inhuman  shaking  indulged 
in  by  -the  various  officials  who  curse  the  weary  trav- 
eler’s rest  on  Continental  lines,  Bolton  was  only 
fully  aroused  when  the  wretched  slow  train  ejected 
the  passengers  at  Berlin. 

Bolton  rubbed  his  eyes.  In  a moment  he  de- 
cided the  first  step  to  take  was  to  seek  Herr  Len- 
dorf. 

He  hailed  a droschke  : — “ Drive  to  96,  Leipziger 
Strasse.” 

And  in  a very  short  time  he  was  driven  there, 
when  one  considers  that  no  droschke  horse  in  Berlin 
has  more  than  three  legs,  and  two  of  those  lame. 

Bolton  found  on  looking  at  the  name-plate 
that  Herr  Lendorf  lived  on  the  fourth  story.  He 
toiled  up,  was  shown  into  a dreary  waiting-room 
by  an  austere  man  who  answered  his  ring,  and  in 
some  little  time  was  conducted  into  the  presence  of 
the  great  private  detective  himself. 

Herr  Gustav  Lendorf  was  a massively-built 
man,  with  a large  bald  head,  overhanging  brow, 
and  clear  blue  eyes,  which  expressed  nothing  but  a 
quiet  friendliness  as  the  Englishman  scraped  his 


52  A “novel”  novel. 

way  through  the  laborious  road  laid  down  by  Ger- 
man officialdom  to  simple  facts. 

These  elaborate  formalities  disposed  of,  Boltor 
presented  the  letter  given  him  by  the  French  Prefect, 

As  Herr  Lendorf’s  eyes  fell  upon  the  hand- 
writing, his  expression  changed  to  one  of  keen  in- 
terest. His  indifferent  “ So— gut— so,”  ceased.  Ht 
read  the  letter,  looked  at  Bolton  attentively,  and 
said  : 

“ The  man  you  are  in  search  of  is  here— in  Ber- 
lin. I can  help  you.  But  no  hurry;  you  must  be 
patient.  The  man  is  the  very  devil.  How,  first  of 
all,  your  disguise,  Mr.  Bolton,  will  not  do ; it  is  too 
striking.” 

Bolton  smiled,  and  explained. 

“ Gut ! schon  gut ! But  you  English  are  prac- 
tical— too  practical.  Look  not  to  this  side  nor  to 
that,  but  all  around  you,  before  you  attempt  to  at- 
tack this  Baron  de  Vere.  He  has  here  also  other 
names,  equally  a disgrace  and  a scandal.  You  must 
watch,  and  watch,  and  watch  again.  Where  are 
you  staying  ? ” 

Bolton  replied  he  had  as  yet  been  nowhere. 
Where  did  he  advise  him  to  go? 

Herr  Lendorf  wrote  out  an  address  : “49  Gross- 
beeren  Strasse.  The  widow  of  an  old  friend  of  mine 
has  a pension  there.  Go  to  her,  mention  my  name; 
—stay,  can  you  act  a little  ? Of  course  you  can— a 
detective ! Come  in  here.  Herr  Gott ! What  a 
disguise  ! ” Bolton  followed  Herr  Lendorf,  and  in 
ten  minutes  there  issued  from  the  inner  room  Herr 
“ Julian  Benton,”  a typical  American-German  stu- 
dent, with  long  hair,  intense  countenance,  the  indis- 
pensible  eye-glass,  and  astonishing  hat. 


A “novel”  novel. 


53 


“ Gut ! ” said  Herr  Lendorf,  “ you  will  not  be 
so  distinguished  now  in  a Berlin  crowd  as  an  En- 
glish * Geistliche.’  Go  to  your  pension  now.  When 
the  police  authorities  come  to  know  your  business 
in  Berlin — as  they  will — give  yourself  out  as  a young 
American  reading  medicine,  attending  lectures,  and 
so  on.  I will  send  you  a line  round  if  I discover 
anything  of  our  friend  before  this  evening;  then 
you  can  begin  your  own  game — but  let  it  be  a care- 
ful one.  Auf  Wiedersehen  ! ” 

Herr  Lendorf  was  immersed  in  his  affairs  before 
Bolton  reached  the  house  door. 

He  drove  straight  to  the  Grossbeeren  Strasse, 
presented  himself  to  Frau  Meyer,  and  was  at  once 
accepted  as  a boarder  by  that  worthy  dame,  when 
she  heard  that  he  was  sent  to  her  by  Herr  Lendorf. 

Bolton  went  to  the  room  allotted  him,  and  en- 
joyed a refreshing  slumber.  He  had  risen  and  eaten 
of  Frau  Meyer’s  best  cookery,  and  was  about  to 
sally  forth  into  the  air  again,  so  anxious  and  eager 
was  he  to  be  actively  engaged,  when  the  smiling 
little  German  maid-servant  handed  him  a letter, 
with  the  information  that  she  had  “ promised  faith- 
fully to  give  it  herself  into  the  hands  of  the  Herr 
Doctor.” 

Bolton  tore  the  note  open.  It  contained  only 
one  line — 

“Watch  opposite  house,  No^70.  ” 

• He  rushed  to  the  dining-room  window ; with  the 
aid  of  his  glasses  he  found  the  number  of  the  opposite 
house  to  be  74.  Walking  into  the  next  room,  which 
was  the  solon,  he  was  directly  opposite  No.  70.  It 
was  nearly  six  o’clock ; people  of  all  classes  were 
going  in  and  out  of  the  house.  Bolton  took  up  a 


54 


A “ NOVEL  ” NOVEL. 


book,  established  himself  in  the  window-seat,  and 
watched  until  his  eyes  ached  and  his  head  was 
giddy.  At  last  his  keen  observation  was  rewarded. 
A man  came  slowly  out  of  the  house,  and  spite  of 
his  marvelous  “ get  up,”  which  would  have  per- 
suaded five  people  out  of  six  that  he  was  what  he 
appeared — a Prussian  officer — Bolton  recognized 
Lord  de  Yere.  The  detective  sprang  from  his  seat, 
left  the  window,  and  in  another  moment  the  house. 
He  followed  the  artillery  officer,  who  walked  swiftly 
towards  the  Thiergarten.  The  day  had  been  hot, 
but  the  evening  air  was  deliciously  cool ; Bolton 
felt  quite  elated  as  he  “ shadowed  ” his  lordship. 
By  the  beautiful  statue  of  the  lovely  “ Konigin 
Luise,”  in  the  Thiergarten,  Lord  de  Vere  halted. 
Presently  a woman  walked,  evidently  rather  be- 
lated, to  the  same  spot ; together  they  walked 
round  and  round  the  statue,  talking  earnestly,  at 
the  last  angrily.  Bolton,  who  ventured  as  near  as 
he  dared,  heard  : “Sick  of  it  all;  ” “When  is  it 
to  end?”  “Hateful  life,”  from  the  woman,  and 
sharp,  snarling  replies  from  the  man.  At  last, 
with  a fierce  “ Return  to  her  at  once ; dare  to  dis- 
obey me,”  Lord  de  Yere  closed  the  interview,  and, 
without  another  word  or  look,  disappeared  in  the 
direction  of  the  Brandenburger  Thor,  leading  to 
“ Unter  den  Linden.” 

The  woman  looked  after  him,  stamped  her  foot, 
and  muttered  something  which  sounded  curiously 
unlike  a blessing  on  Lord  de  V ere ; then,  with  a pas- 
sionate gesture  as  of  one  in  an  uncontrollable  rage, 
she  threw  herself  upon  one  of  the  seats  in  the  gar- 
den, where  she  remained  for  some  little  time,  but 
only  for  a little  time.  The  detective,  who  had 


I 

A (( NOVEL  v NOVEL.  55 

made  up  his  mind  to  follow  her,  and  thereby  find 
out  where  the  unhappy  Duchess  was  living,  saw  a 
man  who,  like  himself,  had  lingered  near  the  spot, 
walk  up  to  her,  seat  himself  on  the  bench  near  her, 
and  commence  a conversation.  At  first  the  girl — 
who,  it  will  have  been  already  guessed,  was  the 
treacherous  maid  of  the  Duchess  of  Mowbray — 
threw  up  her  head  and  deigned  no  answer  to  the 
remarks  of  her  companion;  but  soon  her  mood 
changed.  She  listened,  then  she  smiled,  laughed, 
and  ere  long  she  apparently  was  on  the  most 
friendly  terms  with  her  new  acquaintance,  for  she 
rose  and  together  they  walked  away,  followed  by 
Bolton. 

They  went  towards  the  celebrated  “Kroll’s” 
Gardens,  which,  as  usual,  were  full  of  all  sorts  and 
conditions  of  people  listening  to  all  sorts  of  music, 
drinking  every  sort  of  beer,  Bolton  took  his  place 
next  to  them,  and  was  rewarded  by  hearing 
snatches  of  their  conversation  which  the  lively 
damsel  sustained  in  a sufficiently  fluent  if  some- 
what vulgar  French.  But  she  gave  no  hint  of  her 
own  affairs,  nor  mentioned  where  she  was  living. 
Some  “ Tyroler  Madchen  ” were  exciting  their  au- 
dience to  a fever  of  enthusiasm  by  their  singing 
and  dancing.  The  lively  crowd  of  German  students 
would  take  no  refusal  of  their  insistent  encore. 
“ Tanzen  ja  wieder,  wieder  tanzen,”  they  yelled! 
They  were  so  close  to  the  platform  that  the  per- 
formers dared  not  refuse.  The  maid  sneered. 

“ I cannot  see  much  in  this  stuff,”  she  said, 
“and  anyway,  I must  go  now.”  She  rose  from 
her  chair ; her  companion  followed,  smiling  at  her 
airs  and  graces.  She  allowed  him  to  walk  with 


56  A “novel”  novel. 

her ; arrived  at  the  Brandenburger  Thor,  Boltoi 
heard  her  ask  the  time. 

“Oh,  it  is  not  late;  not  yet  quite  dark.  Wt 
left  the  gardens  too  soon.  It  was  a special  illumi 
nation  night,  too.”  The  girl  debated.  At  last  sh< 
said : “ I want  to  see  the  ‘ Passage  ’ Unter  dei 
Linden  all  lighted  up;  if  you  like  you  can  wall 
with  me.”  Needless  to  say,  the  companion  of  hei 
reckless  choice  at  once  assented.  Arrived  at  th< 
“ Passage,”  which  was  full  of  promenaders  and  o 
people  sitting  in  the  brilliantly  lighted  cafes,  th< 
maid  feasted  her  eyes  upon  all  the  light  and  glitter 
and  Bolton  steadily  followed  her. 

Suddenly  the  girl’s  face  took  upon  it  an  ashj 
look  of  fear.  She  turned  hastily ; without  a word 
of  excuse  or  farewell  to  her  companion  she  dashec 
through  the  crowd.  It  was  as  much  as  Boltor 
could  do  to  keep  her  in  sight.  Making  her  waj 
out  of  the  “ Passage,”  she  darted  to  the  right,  evi- 
dently in  fear  of  pursuit ; on  and  on,  blinded  by  hei 
fears,  and  confused  by  the  jeers  of  such  passers-by 
as  thought  it  worth  their  while  to  notice  the  flying 
woman,  she  did  not  notice  or  hear  the  shouts  of  a 
coachman  who  was  driving  swiftly  round  the  cornel 
of  a street  which  runs  across  “ Unter  den  Linden.” 
In  another  moment  she  was  under  the  plunging 
horses’  hoofs,  rolling  on  the  ground,  and  as  Bol- 
ton felt  sure,  only  dragged  from  death  by  the 
aid  of  a stalwart  policeman  at  the  risk  of  his  own 
life. 

The  policeman  carried  her  on  to  the  pavement, 
the  coachman  swore  loudly,  and  the  crowd  cf  curi- 
ous, gaping  faces  looked  for  a second  at  the  shaken, 
bruised  woman,  and  then  drifted  on  as  they  heard 


: J 

A “novel”  novel.  57 

“ Only  shaken.”  Bolton  alone  remained.  “ I am 
a doctor,”  he  said  quietly  to  the  policeman. 

The  girl,  who  had  not  once  lost  consciousness, 
moaned.  “My  arm!  my  arm!”  she  said,  pite- 
ously. 

“ Hail  a cab,”  said  Bolton  to  the  policeman. 
“ Now  then,  my  good  girl,  I will  take  you  home, 
and  see  about  your  arm.  Where  to  ? ” 

She  hesitated,  then  in  a low  voice  gave  an  ad- 
dress in  the  Dorothea  Strasse.  Bolton  helped  her 
in,  jumped  in  after  her,  and  the  kindly  policeman, 
who  had  been  rewarded  by  the  detective,  shut 
them  in. 

Bolton  knew  the  cause  of  the  girl’s  sudden  flight 
out  of  the  “ Passage.”  In  one  of  the  front  seats 
pear  the  window  of  the  largest  cafe  he  had  seen 
Lord  de  Yere.  The  maid  had  dreaded  he  would 
discover  her  disobedience  and  neglect  of  his  orders 
bo  watch  the  Duchess,  hence  her  fears  and  subse- 
quent accident. 

He  did  not  believe  she  was  really  much  hurt, 
but  he  did  not  speak,  and  save  for  a moan  at  inter- 
nals from  the  girl,  they  drove  in  silence  to  the 
Dorothea  Strasse.  Alighting,  they  were  admitted 
by  the  porter ; the  maid  led  the  way  to  a door  on 
the  first  floor,  rang  the  bell,  and  on  its  being  an- 
swered by  a respectable-looking  servant-maid,  said 
n very  broken  German  : 

“ Oh ! the  terrible  accident  I have  had.  This 
rind  gentleman,  the  doctor,  has  brought  me  home. 
My  mistress,  I fear,  has  wanted  me,  has  been  anx- 
ous ; where  is  she,  not  already  retired  ? ” 

As  the  maid  spoke  the  servant  turned  up  the 
light,  which  had  been  lowered,  until  it  blazed  full 


58  A 44  NOVEL  ” NOVEL. 

upon  the  face  of  the  maid.  In  slow,  distinct  tones 
she  said: 

44  Your  mistress  left  the  house  half  an  hour  aftei 
you  did.  She  left  this  note  for  you.” 

The  maid  gasped,  snatched  the  note,  and  almost 
devoured  it  with  her  eyes  as  she  read.  In  another 
moment  she  fell  heavily  to  the  ground  with  the 
Duchess  of  Mowbray’s  note  held  tightly  in  her  rig- 
idly clenched  hands. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

By  Miss  D.  Bellerby. 

Something  in  the  expression  of  the  Germar 
woman’s  face,  as  she  gazed  calmly  down  at  the 
prostrate  girl,  attracted  Bolton’s  attention. 

44  Don’t  give  yourself  needless  trouble,  Herr 
Doctor ; she  will  recover ; she  is  not  worth  th£ 
least  bit  of  trouble.” 

44  How  do  you  know  that  ? ” asked  Bolton,  witt 
a keen  look  into  the  shrewd,  kindly  face. 

“ How  can  I say  ? But  I do  know  it.” 

44  Perhaps  you  know,  also,  where  the  Duchess 
is?”  ’ j 

44  Whom  ? ” 

4 4 The  English  lady  ; this  girl’s  mistress.” 

44 Did  you  not  hear?”  said  the  German,  eva- 
sively. 44  She  left  the  house  shortly  after  this 
creature  went  out.” 

44  Where  did  she  go  ? ” 

44  Ach  ! How  can  1 say  ? ” 

44  Perhaps  this  little  note  will  tell  me,”  said  Bol 
ton.,  bending  towards  the  insensible  Maillard  anc 
endeavoring  to  draw  the  paper  from  her  hold  ; bul 


A “ NOVEL  ” NOVEL.  59 

the  fingers  were  perfectly  rigid,  and  his  utmost 
strength  failed  to  open  them. 

He  looked  up  half-impatiently  to  meet  the  Ger- 
man’s eyes  fixed  scrutinizingly  on  him ; answering 
the  question  they  asked  so  plainly,  he  said : 

“ You  need  not  fear  to  tell  me  all  you  know;  1 
am  an  English  detective,  *and  I desire  to  help  the 
Duchess — the  lady  who  has  been  staying  here.” 
“You  are  not  deceiving  me?”  inquired  the 
woman,  anxiously. 

“No!  Herr  Lendorf  would  settle  any  doubts 
you  may  have  on  that  score.” 

At  that  magical  name  her  face  cleared  and  her 
tongue  became  loosened  : 

“ The  English  lady — ach  ! How  lovely  and  how 
sad  she  is  !* — has  engaged  me  as  her  maid  to  ac- 
company  her  on  her  travels  when  she  feels  ready  to 
go.  She  has  only  gone  into  the  next  street  to  a 
house  where  my  mother  lives ; there  she  will  stay 
until  it  is  safe  for  her  to  venture  abroad.  This  gir  l 
here  has  betrayed  her;  I don’t  know  how.  The' 
English  lady,  my  new  mistress,  feels  she  can  trust 
me  j but  she  says  she  is  not  free  to  tell  me  all  her 
trouble ; 'only  I know  that  she  wishes  to  escape 
from  her  father.  He  will  be  here  soon;  will  yea 
see  him  ? ” 

“ No  ! ” said  Bolton,  promptly.  “ Some  day  I 

hope  to  speak  to  him  to  some  purpose  ; but  now* 

however,  about  that  note  ; I should  like  to  read  it. 

“There  is  no  necessity  ; it  only  tells  that  faith- 
less girl  that  her  mistress  has  gone  away,  and  that 
it  will  be  useless  to  attempt  to  track  her.” 

“Then  I will  be  off  for  the  present,  and  leave 
her  to  you  and  to  Lord  de  Vere.  If  she  recover  s 


60 


A ‘ ‘ NOVEL  ’ ’ NOVEL. 


before  he  comes  do  not  let  her  leave  the  house.  It 
will  not  do  to  lose  sight  of  her.” 

Bolton  had  rather  resented  being*  told  that  he 
was  too  self-confident ; but  he  was  far  too  sensible 
to  disregard  a useful  hint ; so  he  determined  to  ask 
Herr  Lendorf  ?s  advice  on  the  present  state  of  affairs. 

The  great  man  listened  with  interest  to  what  he 
had  to  say  ; then  gave  his  opinion  without  the  least 
hesitation.  “ Lord  de  Yere  will  leave  Berlin  im- 
mediately : for  two  reasons.  He  will  go  in  search 
of  his  daughter ; and  lie  knows  that  he  is  not  safe 
here.  Do  you  desire  the  honor  of  arresting  him  ? ” 
“ Nothing  would  give  me  greater  pleasure,”  re- 
plied Bolton. 

“ So  ? Then  wait  a moment.” 

Herr  Lendorf  wheeled  round  to  the  table ; wrote 
rapidly  for  two  minutes,  and  then  handed  what  he 
had  written  to  the  English  detective.  Bolton 
glanced  at  the  paper,  and  saw  it  was  a formal  war- 
rant, giving  him  power  to  arrest  Lord  de  Yere,  who 
was  described  by  half-a-dozen  aliases . 

“ Now  go  to  your  'pension;  take  refreshment  and 
rest ; you  never  know  how  badly  you  may  soon  need 
both.  Do  nothing  until  you  hear  from  me.” 

“ And  the  Duchess  ? ” inquired  Bolton,  half  afraid 
the  great  man  had  been  sufficiently  ungallant  to 
have  forgotten  her  Grace. 

“ The  Duchess  will  remain  where  she  is  for  the 
present,”  replied  Herr  Lendorf,  as  decisively  as  if 
he  had  commanded  her  to  do  so,  and  had  no  fear  of 
not  being  obeyed. 

So  Bolton  returned  to  No.  49  Grossbeeren 
Strasse,  and  ate  a good  supper,  after  which  he 
smoked  a meditative  pipe,  and  then  went  to  sleep. 


A “ NOVEL  ” 


NOVEL. 


61 


Two  hours  later  he  was  aroused  by  a touch  on 
his  shoulder.  A tall,  fair,  young  fellow  stood  by 
him. 

“I  was  directed  to  give  you  this,  Herr  Stu- 
dent,” he  said,  handing  Bolton  a folded  paper. 

“ Will  you ? ” 

But  the  young  man  was  out  of  the  room  before 
the  words — merely  an  invitation  to  have  something 
to  drink,  the  regular  Englishman’s  idea  df  hospi- 
tality— were  out  of  the  detective’s  mouth. 

“ An  aged  countryman  and  his  daughter  leave 
by  the  night  train.  They  are  traveling  to  Leipsic 
en  route  for  Vienna,  to  seek  a sick  relative.  Better 
follow  them.”  That  was  all  the  paper  contained. 

Bolton  lost  no  time  in  going  to  the  station, 
where  he  quickly  caught  sight  of  an  old  peasant 
and  his  daughter,  in  whom  he  would — certainly — 
with  all  his  cleverness,  never  have  recognized  the 
aristocratic  parent  of  the  beautiful  Duchess  of  Mow- 
bray, and  her  Grace’s  recreant  maid.  But  if  any 
doubt  arose  in  his  mind,  it  was  dispelled  by  the 
tall,  fair,  young  man  who  had  visited  him  at  the 
pension . He  sauntered  towards  Bolton,  humming 
a merry  tune,  fitting  to  it,  as  he  passed,  the  words : 
“ You  have  them  ! Lose  them  not.” 

Then  the  gate  was  opened,  and  they  went  on  to 
the  platform  as  the  train  came  in.  There  had  been 
many  visitors  to  Berlin  that  day  from  the  smaller 
towns  near,  and  several  people  were  returning  to 
their  homes  b}r  that  train  ; so,  though  he  tried  hard 
to  get  into  the  same  compartment  with  the  old 
countryman  and  th^  young  countrywoman,  Bolton 
was  not  able  to  do  so  without  drawing  some  atten- 
tion to  himself,  which  was  the  last  thing  he  desired 


62  A “novel”  novel. 

to  do.  But  he  secured  a corner  seat  of  a compart- 
ment in  the  next  carriage,  from  whence  he  could 
see  every  one  who  left  the  train. 

Lord  de  Yere  had  found  little  difficulty  in  re- 
storing his  accomplice  to  her  senses  when  he  arrived 
at  the  house  in  the  Dorothea  Strasse,  where  he  ex- 
pected to  find  his  daughter  awaiting  instructions 
for  their  next  move. 

The  door  was  slightly  open,  as  Bolton  had  left 
it  when  he  went  out;  and  his  lordship,  entering 
five  minutes  afterwards,  found  the  maid  still  sense- 
less on  the  floor,  and  the  German  servant  calmly 
watching  her. 

“ What  is  the  matter  ? ” asked  Lord  de  Vere, 
sharply. 

Gretchen,  who  was  not  supposed  to  he  aware  of 
his  rank,  raised  her  eyebrows,  and  pointed  to  the 
form  at  her  feet : 

“ She  came  back  in  a carriage,  spoke  of  an 
accident,  and  fainted.” 

“ Then  why  don’t  you  pick  her  up,  and  find  out 
where  she  is  hurt  ? ” 

“ But  I have  not  told  all,”  said  the  girl,  delib- 
erately, gazing  straight  into  Lord  de  Yere’s  eyes. 
“ I had  a note  to  give  her  from  her  mistress,  who 
went  away  quite  early  in  the  evening.” 

“ Went  away  ! Where  ? What  are  you  talk- 
ing about  ? ” 

Not  one  atom  flurried  by  his  fierce  manner, 
Gretchen  replied : 

“ The  English  lady  left  this  house  two  hours 
ago.  How  can  I say  where  she  went  ? She  left 
that  note  for  her  maid.” 

“What  note?” 


63 


A “novel”  novel. 

“ The  one  in  her  hand : she  has  it  clasped 
tightly.” 

Lord  de  Vere  went  down  on  his  knees,  and  en- 
deavored, as  Bolton  had  done  not  long  before,  to 
open  the  clenched  fingers  that  held  the  little  note. 
But  all  to  no  purpose. 

With  an  exclamation— fortunately  for  Gretchen’s 
ears  it  was  spoken  in  English — his  noble  lordship 
drew  a flask  from  his  pocket,  and  poured  some 
brandy  between  Maillard’s  teeth,  which  were 
clenched  as  tightly  as  were  her  fingers.  Brandy 
was  a thing  she  could  never  resist.  Considering 
how  frequently  she  partook  of  it,  it  was  rather  sur- 
prising that  the  present  dose  took  effect  so  rapidly  ; 
but  it  is  possible  that  Lord  de  Vere’s  flask  was  sup- 
plied with  very  different  stuff  to  what  the  girl  was 
accustomed  to  buy. 

She  opened  her  eyes  and  sat  up.  Her  gaze  fell 
on  her  employer,  who  stood  directly  under  the 
light,  reading  the  note  he  had  at  length  succeeded 
in  getting  possession  of. 

Then  Maillard  sprang  to  her  feet  and  made  for 
the  door.  Gretchen  stopped  her,  clutching  at  her 
arm.  It  was  the  arm  that  had  been  hurt,  and  the 
girl  shrieked  with  pain.  Lord  de  Vere  turned,  and 
swore  at  her  most  sweetly,  demanding  to  know  how 
she  had  dared  to  neglect  her  charge. 

“I  simply  walked  a little  for  relaxation;  after 

so  much  traveling  a walk  is  a treat ; and  behold 

but  she  was  not  allowed  to  finish. 

“ Go  to  your  mistress’s  sitting-room  ! ” said  his 
lordship,  scarcely  able  to  speak  for  anger  and  disap- 
pointment ; but  conscious  that  it  would  not  do  for 
Gretchen  to  hear  all  that  passed. 


64  A 66  NOVEL  ??  NOVEL. 

Gretchen,  however,  knew  that  it  was  of  the 
greatest  importance  that  she  should  hear  what 
passed  ; so  she  stole  upstairs  after  them,  when  she 
had  made  a pretense  of  banging  the  street  door, 
and  noisily  going  towards  the  kitchen.  The  sitting- 
room  door  did  not  fit  any  too  closely ; and  perhaps 
that  fact  was  answerable  for  the  information  which 
eventually  reached  Bolton,  and  sent  him  to  the  sta- 
tion in  search  of  an  old  countryman  and  his  daugh- 
ter. 

Several  persons  got  out  when  the  train  stopped 
at  the  next  station,  but  not  the  two  he  was  watch- 
ing for;  so  Bolton  made  his  way  to  their  compart- 
ment, which  was  now  half  empty,  and  took  a seat 
on  the  s^ame  side,  where  they  wou’d  not  be  likely  to 
notice  him.  He  had  made  a slight  alteration  in  his  ap- 
pearance, and  he  did  not  think  it  at  all  possible  that 
the  girl  Maillard  would  recognize  him  as  the  doctor 
who  had  put  her  into  a cab  and  taken  her  home 
some  hours  before. 

As  the  train  started  once  more  he  glanced  fur- 
tively at  her,  thinking  she  had  recovered  very 
quickly  from  the  effects  of  the  accident  and  subse- 
quent swoon.  There  was  but  little  of  her  face  visi- 
ble, and  the  light  was  very  bad  ; but  Bolton  could 
see  she  was  pale,  and  that  her  arms  were  hidden 
under  her  shawl.  Possibly  the  injured  one  was  in 
a sling,  and  she  hid  both  in  order  to  call  no  atten- 
tion to  it.  Her  dress  was  the  everyday  attire  of  a 
Prussian  peasant.  Lord  de  Vere’s  disguise  was 
much  more  complete.  He  had  bowed  his  tall  form 
until  he  looked  inches  shorter  than  his  real  height ; 
and  he  had  contrived  to  do  away  so  entirely  with 
his  haughty  aristocratic  bearing  and  manner  as  to 


A “ NOVEL” 


NOVEL. 


65 


make  Bolton  think,  whimsically,  that  the  air  noble 
which  had  hitherto  distinguished  him  (in  spite  of 
his  ignoble  deeds)  belonged,  in  reality,  to  his  clothes 
and  not  to  himself. 

“His  tailor  would  soon  make  his  fortune  if  that 
was  so  ! ” said  the  detective  to  himself,  straining 
his  ears  to  listen  to  a conversation  that  was  being 
commenced  between  the  two. 

“ If  we  should  not  be  in  time  ! ” exclaimed  the 
girl,  plaintively,  in  a low  tone. 

“Don’t  fear  that,”  replied  her  supposed  father, 
in  a guttural  voice  that  was  most  unlike  my  Lord 
de  Vere’s  usual  clear  utterances ; “ she  will  not  die 
until  we  come ; after  sending  the  money  for  our 
journey,  too.” 

“ I am  thankful  she  wishes  us  to  be  friends  at 
last,  my  father ; it  did  not  seem  right  that  we 
should  be  slighted  just  because  we  are  poor.  Per- 
haps  ” 

“Well,  Madchen  ? ” 

“ Perhaps  she  means  to  leave  us  something,  I 
was  going  to  say.” 

“Hush,  child!  Your  tongue  runs  away  with 
you/’ 

After  that  rebuke  there  was  silence.  Bolton 
could  not  help  admiring  the  thoroughness  with 
which  they  acted  their  parts.  Had  he  not  known 
them  to  be  Lord  de  Vere  and  the  Duchess  of  Mow-  * 
bray’s  maid,  he  would  never  have  guessed  that  he 
had  seen  either  before. 

He  amused  himself  with  arranging  his  plan  for 
accomplishing  rhe  arrest,  finally  deciding  that  Leip- 
sic  Station  w^ould  be  the  best  place  for  that  purpose. 
Of  course  there  was  nothing  to  prevent  his  arrest- 


66 


A “novel”  novel. 

ing  Lord  de  Yere  at  once;  but  there  were  too  pow- 
erful fellows  in  the  compartment,  and  if  they  chose 
to  take  their  supposed  countryman’s  part,  there 
was  nothing  to  prevent  them  throwing  the  detect- 
ive out  of  the  window.  Bo  he  prudently  determined 
to  have  a little  patience. 

Leipsic  at  last ! 

The  old  man  and  his  daughter  roused  themselves 
from  what  had  seemed  a sound  sleep,  though  the 
watchful  Bolton  guessed  that  they  had  only  been 
shamming. 

The  three  stepped  on  to  the  platform,  and  when 
well  under  one  of  the  row  of  lights — not  very  bril- 
liant lights — the  detective,  advancing  a foot  or  so, 
placed  his  hand  heavily  on  the  old  man’s  shoulder, 
and  said  in  English  : — 

“ Lord  de  Yere,  you  are  my  prisoner  ! ” 

“Hein!  ” 

The  old  countryman  raised  his  head,  as  well  as 
he  could  for  his  infirmity,  and  looked  inquiringly  at 
the  foreigner  who  had  addressed  him. 

Bolton  withdrew  his  hand  in  dismay. 

This  was  no  more  Lord  de  Vere  than  he  was! 
The  features  were  strange  to  him,  and  the  man 
was,  without  doubt,  what  he  appeared  to  be— a 
Prussian  peasant. 

And  the  girl — his  daughter  ? Well,  she  was 
certainly  not  Lady  Seringa’s  treacherous  maid ; 
her  honest  face — seen  more  clearly  under  the  gas- 
light— was  quite  different  to  Maillard’s  crafty 
countenance. 

Bolton  stood  aghast,  too  much  taken  aback  to 
speak ; and  the  two  passed  on  without  giving  him 
another  thought. 


A ‘ ‘ NOVEL  ’ ’ NOVEL. 


67 


Who  was  to  blame  ? 

Gretchen  ? 

The  tall,  fair,  young  man  ? 

Herr  Lendorf  ? 

Himself  ? 

It  was  impossible  to  say.  One  thing  only  was 
certain ; the  small  man  from  London,  and  the  great 
man  at  Berlin  had  both  been  cleverly  outwitted  by 
that  past-master  among  rogues  — the  unhappy 
Duchess  of  Mowbray’s  father,  Lord  de  Yere. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

B y Mis  s Eva  Ro  o s . 
Disappointed  and  humiliated,  Bolton  took  the 
return  train  for  Berlin,  and  was  soon  in  Dorothea 
Strasse  again. 

He  was  determined  to  sift  the  affair  to  the  bot- 
tom ; to  see  if  the  German  girl  was  an  accomplice, 
before  he  reported  matters  to  Herr  Lendorf. 

He  found  the  street-door  of  the  Duchess’s  tem- 
porary residence  open,  and  the  hall  in  confusion. 
Quietly  entering  the  sitting-room,  he  surprised  the 
Diensmadchen  ” in  the  act  of  laying  the  tea-table. 
“Ach!  mein  Herr,  wie  Sie  haben  mich  er- 
schreckt ! ” she  exclaimed,  letting  the  tea-pot  fall  on 
the  tray  with  a clatter,  “ have  you  arrested  them, 
that  wicked  girl  anc}  her  master  ? ” 

“No,”  answered  Bolton,  sternly,  “and  I want 
to  know  exactly  what  you  had  to  do  with  it.  Did 
Lord  de  Yere  come  home  ? ” 

“ Yes  ; and  he  made  a great  ‘ Schlagerei  ’ with 
the  English  girl  in  Madame’s  sitting-room.  I lis- 
tened to  them  behind  the  door.” 


68  A “ NOVEL  ” NOVEL. 

“ Well  ? I suppose  you  heard  them  say  where 
they  were  going  to  ? ” 

“ I informed  mein  Herr  in  the  note  that  they 
were  going  to  Hamburg  by  the  night  train,  in  the 
* Verkleidung 5 of  a young  married  couple.” 

Bolton  started  up  aghast : 

“Woman  ! your  note  told  me  to  follow  an  old 
peasant  and  his  daughter  ! ” he  shouted.  “ And 
here  have  I wasted  precious  time,  while  that  scoun- 
drel gets  away  unchecked.” 

“So  wahr  ich  lebe,  mein  Herr!”  replied  the 
- girl  earnestly,  “ I wrote  to  you  as  I have  said.  I 
hid  behind  the  curtain  on  the  landing,  and  saw 
them  come  stealthily  out.  She  was  dressed  in  dark 
blue,  with  a large  black  shawl  on  to  hide  her  ban- 
daged arm ; and  he — ach  Himmel ! I should  not 
have  known  him  ; he  was  transformed  into  a tall, 
fair,  young  man,  in ” 

“In  a light  gray  Suit,”  interrupted  Bolton,  ex- 
citedly, and  crimsoning  to  think  that  he,  one  of  the 
ablest  detectives  of  Scotland  Yard,  should  have 
spoken  to  the  man  and  not  recognized  him. 

“ Ja,  mein  Herr,”  she  rejoined,  looking  curiously  ; 
at  his  disgusted  face,“  in  a light  gray  suit.  I ran, 
downstairs  when  they  had  gone,  and  wrote  the 
note.  A Polizei  was  lounging  about  just  outside, 
so  I gave  it  to  him  to  carry  to  Herr  Lendorf,  with 
a message  to  send  it  on  to  you  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible. I could  not  send  it  direct,  because  I did  not 
know  the  address.” 

Hastily  scribbling  his  alias,  street,  and  number 
on  a leaf  in  his  pocket-book,  Bolton  tore  it  out,  and 
handed  it  to  Gretchen. 

“If  you  want  to  inform  me  of  anything,  that 


A “novel”  novel. 


69 


name  and  address  will  alwa}rs  find  me,”  lie  said; 
“ and  now  listen  attentively,  Gretchen,  for  I must 
hurry  to  Herr  Lendorf  and  report  matters.  You 
say  your  new  mistress  is  in  the  next  street  ? ” 

“ Ja  ! Number  Achtzehn,  mein  Herr  ! ” 

“ Well ! You  must  not  say  a word  to  that  poor 
lady  about  me ; it  would  only  alarm  her.  Communi- 
cate to  me  anything*  you  may  find  out ; remember, 
it  will  be  all  for  her  good  ; and  send  me  a telegram 
at  once  if  Lord  de  Yere  gets  hold  of  her  again. 
He  is  persecuting  her  for  some  wicked  purpose  of 
his  own,  and  I want  to  find  out  what  that  is ; there- 
fore do  not  scruple  to  tell  me  anything  which  your 
mistress  may  confide  to  you.  Your  communica- 
tions will  be  in  safe  hands.” 

Then,  with  a few  hurried  words  of  caution,  Bol- 
ton left  the  house. 

Hailing  a droschke,  he  drove  quickly  to  the  great 
detective’s  residence.  Here  he  related  how  he  had 
been  duped  by  the  Duchess’s  wily  father,  telling  his 
story  with  humiliation  and  a stinging  sense  of  de- 
feat that  filled  him  with  bitter  anger. 

Herr  Lendorf  sat  silently  meditating  for  a while, 
then  he  spoke. 

“ I am  sorry  this  has  happened,  Herr  Bolton ; 
the  Polizei  must  have  been  an  accomplice,  for  I did 
not  receive  any  note.  I think  the  best  thing  you 
can  do  would  be  to  return  to  your  pension , and  set- 
tle with  Frau  Meyer.  You  must  change  your  ad- 
dress, for  it  it  is  evident  you  are  watched  by  Baron 
de  Yere’s  spies.  You  might  drop  a line  to  the 
Duchess’s  new  maid  to  apprise  her  of  your  inten- 
tions. Here  is  pen  and  paper.” 

Bolton  sat  down,  and  began  writing  rapidly, 


70  A “ NOVEL  ” NOVEL. 

while  his  companion  speedily  became  immersed  in 
his  own  affairs. 

As  he  was  thus  employed,  Herr  Lendorf’s  well- 
trained  Bediente  entered,  saying-  in  quiet  tones  : 

“Two  English  gentlemen  to  see  you,  mein 
Herr.” 

Bolton  glanced  up  in  some  annoyance  at  the  in- 
terruption, for  he  would  have  liked  to  ask  the  great 
detective  a few  questions  more  ; but  his  temporary 
anger  gave  way  to  surprise  when  he  saw  the  Duke 
of  Mowbray’s  two  firm  friends— Mr.  Lyndhurst  and 
Mr.  Tredegar. 

They  in  their  turn  were  equally  astonished  at 
thus  unexpectedly  stumbling  over  him,  for  Bolton 
had  not  communicated  with  the  Duke,  but  had 
waited  till  he  could  send  him  a favorable  report;1 
so  the  inmates  of  the  silent  house  in  Hanover  Square 
were  completely  in  the  dark  as  to  his  or  the  Duch-i 
ess’s  whereabouts. 

“We  came  to  consult  Herr  Lendorf,”  Tredegar 
said,  when  the  first  greetings  and  inquiries  were 
over.  “ The  Duke  was  in  such  anxiety  that  we  de- 
termined to  try  and  trace  her  ourselves,  if  only  for 
the  purpose  of  easing  his  mind.  Up  to  now  we  have 
met  with  no  success.  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Bolton, 
that  she  is  at  present  in  Vandsbecker  Allee,  living 
entirely  by  herself  ? ” 

“I  am  aware  of  it,”  was  Bolton’s  reply.  “I 
have  already  consulted  Herr  Lendorf  about  it.  You 
had  better  come  with  me  to  my  lodgings  ; we  can 
talk  matters  over  by  the  way.” 

With  a cordial  farewell,  they  left  the  great 
man’s  office  and  set  briskly  out  for  Grossbeeren 
Strasse,  Lyndhurst  and  Tredegar  relating  the  news 


A “ NOVEL  ” NOVEL. 


71 


as  they  went — how  the  Duke  was  out  of  danger, 
though  still  seriously,  ill ; how  devoted  Lady  Al- 
lonby  was  in  her  sisterly  nursing ; how  kind  and 
sympathetic  all  their  friends  were ; and,  lastly, 
how  wild  and  improbable  were  the  surmises  of  the 
gossips  in  their  “ set,”  the  latest  report  which  they 
had  set  afloat  being  that  Lady  Seringa  had  eloped 
with  her  own  coachman  ! 

They  arrived  at  their  destination  just  as  they 
had  finished  their  narrative. 

Honest  Frau  Meyer  met  them  at  the  door  with 
a piece  of  paper  in  her  hand. 

“A  little  hoy  brought  this  for  you  about  ten 
minutes  ago,”  she  said,  handing  the  note  to  the 
“student  of  medicine.” 

“ Come  at  once.  Madam  is  in  danger. — Gret- 
CHEN.” 

That  was  all  it  contained.  Bolton  read  the 
words  with  a sinking  heart.  Was  she,  too,  going 
to  escape  him  ? 

Hurriedly  informing  his  two  companions  of  this 
fresh  catastrophe,  he  ran  out,  and  stopped  one  of 
the  many  carriages  driving  by. 

With  the  words, . “ Vandsbeeker  Allee — drive 
like  the  devil ; I will  make  it  worth  your  while,” 
Bolton  sprang  in,  closely  followed  by  Lyndhurst 
and  Tredegar,  and  was  driven  off  at  a breakneck 
speed. 

Just  as  they  reached  the  corner  of  the  Allee,  the 
tired  horse  gave  a great  lurch  and  then  fell  with  a 
crash  to  the  ground,  nearly  upsetting  the  rickety 
carriage  as  well. 

It  did  not  take  a minute  to  leap  out  and  ascer- 
tain what  was  the  matter. 


72  A “NOVEL”  NOVEL. 

“Quick,”  gasped  Bolton,  whose  keen  eye  had 
caught  sight  of  a droschke  standing  at  the  door  of 
No.  18,  some  distance  away.  “ There  they  are  ! ” 

With  a curse  upon  their  luck,  the  three  men  ran 
at  their  utmost  speed  to  where  a small  group  was 
standing  on  the  pavement.  A mac1  and  a woman 
seemed  to  be  holding  a lifeless  figure  between  them, 
while  a small  crowd  of  gaping  peasants  were  hover- 
ing near.  Gretchen’s  comfortable  figure  was  no- 
where to  be  seen. 

But  it  was  of  no  use.  Lord  de  Vere  caught 
sight  of  them  as  they  came  tearing  down  in  pur- 
suit. Hastily  bundling  the  inanimate  form  into  the 
cab,  he  and  the  maid  stepped  in  and  were  driven 
rapidly  off  before  their  very  eyes. 


CHAPTER  X.  ; 

By  Miss  Kathleen  Watson. 

In  about  three  minutes  Bolton,  Lyndhurst'  and 
Tredegar  arrived  at  18,  Vandsbecker  Allee,  breath- 
less, panting  and  scarcely  able  to  speak  for  bitter 
mortification. 

The  droschke  containing  Lord  de  Yere  and  his 
ill-fated  daughter  had  turned  down  a side-street  and 
entirely  disappeared. 

“ However,  they  can’t  be  very  far  off,”  said; 
Lyndhurst,  who  appeared  the  most  hopeful  of  the ' 
three.  “ Let  us  go  in  and  see  what  this  little 
Gretclien  of  yours  and  her  mother  have  to  say  fori 
themselves.” 

They  were  told  by  the  hall-porter  that  Frau 
Schmidt  lived  on  the  third  etage,  and  let  her  rooms 
out  in  apartments.  He  also  volunteered  the  in- 
formation that  Frau  Schmidt  herself  had  gone  out 
to  do  her  marketing  about  an  hour  before,  but  that, 
to  the  best  of  his  belief,  her  daughter  Gretchen  was 
still  upstairs. 

“ Have  you  any  idea,”  said  Bolton,  “ where  that 


A c c NOVEL  ’ ’ NOVEL. 


73 


carriage  was  going  to — the  one  that  has  just  gone 
off  with  a gentleman,  a lady  and  a maid  inside  ? ” 

“ Ja  wohl,  mein  Herr,  the  order  was  given  to 
drive  to  the  Leipziger  Bahnhof.  I said  myself  to 
the  gentleman  that  the  lady  was  not  fit  to  travel, 
but  he  answered  that  it  was  only  a temporary  faint- 
ness, and  that  they  must  catch  a certain  train.” 

“I  feel  pretty  well  convinced  that  it  is  all  a 
blind,”  said  Bolton,  turning  to  the  Duke’s  two 
friends.  As  a detective  himself  he  was  beginning 
to  have  an  immense  respect  for  Lord  de  Vere’s 
ingenuity  ! 

“Still,”  he  continued,  “ I think  it  would  be  as 
well,  perhaps,  if  one  of  you  two  gentlemen  would 
kindly  get  a droschke  and  drive  off  at-  once  to  the 
Leipziger  Bahnhof  and  make  every  inquiry  there. 
We  are  not  all  three  needed  here,  and  it  would  be 
wiser  to  separate.” 

Lyndhurst  instantly  offered  to  go,  but,  unfor- 
tunately, it  was  some  little  time  before  he  could  get 
a droschke,  and  even  then  the  ca"bby  was  not  ex- 
actly a Jehu. 

When  he  arrived  at  his  destination,  it  was  to 
find  that  no  people  answering  to  the  description 
given  by  him  had  alighted  there  that  day. 

“What  a beastly  bother,  to  be  sure  ! ” said  this 
puzzled  young  man,  whose  ways  of  life  had  not  led 
him  into  this  sort  of  thing  before.  “Now,  I should 
like  to  be  able  to  do  Mowbray  a good  turn ; he’s 
far  too  decent  a fellow  to  be  made  a scapegoat  for 
the  sins  of  that  old  brute  De  Yere.  Suppose,  now, 
I go  in  for  a little  amateur  detective  business  on 
my  own  account.  But  how  on  earth  to  set  about 
it — that’s  where  the  pull  is  ! ” 

There  we  will  leave  him,  standing  under  the 
portico  of  the  great  central  station,  awaiting  an 
inspiration  from  Heaven,  from  earth,  from  any- 
thing ! 

In  the  meantime  Bolton  and  Tredegar  had 
mounted  the  steps  up  to  the  third  etage. 

The  door  stood  slightly  open. 


74  A “novel”  novel. 

Bolton  pealed  the  hell,  and  called  loudly  foi 
Gretchen. 

Receiving  no  answer,  the  two  men  entered,  and 
went  at  hazard  into  the  first  room  they  came  to. 

It  happened  to  he  the  chief  sitting-room.  A 
strong,  peculiar  smell  pervaded  the  apartment — a 
smell  about  which  there  could  he  no  possible  mis- 
take. 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other,  and  ex- 
claimed, simultaneously : 

“ Chloroform  ! ” 

Sure  enough,  in  a corner  of  the  room,  partially 
concealed  by  the  sofa,  lay  Gretchen,  stretched  or 
the  floor  in  a heavy,  senseless  stupor. 

It  was  quite  clear.  Both  the  Duchess  and  her 
faithful  little  attendant  had  been,  within  the  last 
half-hour,  subjected  to  the  same  hideous  treat- 
ment. 

* * * * * ! 

High  up  among  the  hills  that  lie  beyond  the 

little  town  of  Bautzen,  the  capital  of  Saxon  Lusa- 
tia,  there  stands,  all  hidden  among  its  groves  of 
cypress  and  of  yew,  the  Cistercian  nunnery  of  the 
Sacre  Coeur. 

The  order  is  one  which  they  tell  us  is  dying  out  j 
nevertheless,  in  old-world  places  where  the  influ- 
ence of  the  French  Revolution  was  less  severely 
felt,  those  who  run  may  still  discover  here  and 
there  a quiet,  gray  retreat  of  the  Cistercian  orders 
where  sweet  sisters  of  the  Cross  dedicate  them- 
selves first  to  God  and  then  to  His  poor. 

Late  one  evening,  when  the  last  vespers  had 
been  sung  and  the  altar  lights  one  by  one  put  out 
in  the  little  chapel  of  the  Sacre  Coeur,  ther«  came  a 
sharp  and  violent  ringing  at  the  great  iron  entrance 
gate. 

The  aged  porter  hastened  to  draw  back  the 
huge  bolts,  and  see  what  was  wanted. 

A gentleman  stepped  from  a carriage,  in  which, 
in  the  dim  light,  two  other  figures  could  be  just 
discerned. 


A “ NOVEL  ” NOVEL. 


75 


He  gave  in  a card,  with  the  name  of  Captain 
Dallas  on  it,  and  asked  to  see  the  Mother  Superior 
without  delay. 

On  being  admitted  into  her  presence,  he  ex- 
plained, with  profuse  apologies  for  troubling  her, 
that  he  was  traveling  with  his  daughter  into  Saxon 
Switzerland. 

His  daughter  was  the  victim  of  a morbid  melan- 
cholia, and  at  times,  as  at  the  present,  was  in  a 
state  of  complete  nervous  prostration.  He  had  had 
the  advice  of  the  most  talented  physicians  in 
Europe ; he  had  tried  all  the  renowned  cures  and 
waters  of  France  and  Germany;  nothing  was  of 
avail;  until  at  last,  he  sorrowfully  said,  his  faith 
in  doctors  had  given  way  altogether. 

Passing  through  the  country  and  hearing  much 
at  Bautzen,  where  he  had  arrived  that  morning,  of 
the  fine  air  of  the  surrounding  hills,  it  had  occurred 
to  his  despairing  father’s  heart  whether  a short 
sojourn  at  the  convent  might  not  be  of  some  bene- 
fit to  his  poor  afflicted  daughter  who  seemed  so  sick 
of  cities  and  society,  he  said. 

He  pleaded  urgently  with  the  Mother  Superior  ; 
he  begged  her  to  try  and  arrange  the  matter  ; he 
put  a purse  before  her  containing  gold  and  bank- 
notes. Then,  noting  the  surprise  and  the  reproach 
[of  her  face,  he  said,  with  the  savoir  faire  that  ha 
had  carried  with  him  through  all  the  ways  of  a 
much-checkered  life  : 

“ For  your  poor,  surely  you  will  take  it  for 
them  : shadowed  as  my  own  life  has  lately  been  ’* 
(and  here  this  touchingly  sad  gentleman,  who,  it 
will  be  guessed,  was  none  other  than  Lord  de  Vere 
himself,  thought  he  was  not  so  very  far  wrong  !), 
still  I always  find  consolation  in  being  able  to 
relieve  the  sorrows  of  others.” 

The  Mother  hesitated.  Not  from  any  want  of 
lospitable  feelings  at  all,  but  in  truth  she  did  not 
ike  either  the  .manner  or  the  appearance  of  the 
nan  before  her,  in  spite  of  his  overwhelming  affa- 
oility.  She  was  not  as  impressed,  as  she  perhaps 


76 


A “ NOVEL  ” NOVEL. 


ought  to  have  been,  by  his  paternal  solicitude. 
Something  in  the  tone  of  his  voice,  in  the  expres- 
sion of  his  face,-  struck  her  as  false,  unreal.  But 
she  thought  also  of  her  poor,  who  in  the  hard,  long 
winter  would  come  to  the  convent  for  relief  from 
miles  around,  whose  bitter  distress  this  stranger’s 
gold  would  do  so  much  to  alleviate.  He  saw  the 
signs  of  relenting  on  her  face,  and  he  took  the 
settlement  of  the  matter  for  granted.  Her  maid, 
he  said,  would  wait  entirely  on  his  daughter.  He, 
himself,  had  pressing  business,  which  he  would  seize 
the  occasion  to  attend  to,  and  then  he  proposed  to 
return  and  fetch  her,  or  leave  her  to  stay  on  longer, 
as  might  be  thought  best. 

Sad  and  strange  to  say,  his  daughter  had  taken 
a positive  dislike  to  him  ! He  was  told  that  it  was 
quite  a usual  feature  in  cases  of  the  sort  for  the 
victims  of  this  dreadful  melancholy  to  hate  the 
sight  of  those  nearest  and  dearest  to  them  ; still  it: 
was  not  the  least  painful  part  of  the  whole  thing. 

The  maid  was  a person  who  thoroughly  under-* 
stood  the  case,  he  said,  and  although  his  daughter’ 
appeared  to  dislike  her  presence  also,  yet  the  close 
attendance  of  this  faithful  servant  was  absolutely 
necessary. 

In  conclusion,  he  expressed  a hope  that  there 
was  no  possible  chance  of  his.  daughter’s  being  able; 
to  escape  from  the  precincts  of  the  convent.  ~ Here' 
the  Mother  looked  at  him  for  a moment  with  a‘ 
grave,  curious  look.  He  hastened  to  explain  that 
his  daughter  had  tried  once  or  twice  before  to  elude; 
the  loving  but  necessary  surveillance  of  those  about* 
her. 

During  the  latter  part  of  the  conversation,  the 
kindly  Mother  had  felt  her  heart  stir  within  her  in 
a strange  emotion,  and  go  out  with  a great  pity  j 
towards  this  daughter  whom  she  had  never  seen,f 
and  to  whom  she  felt,  nevertheless,  instinctively  i 
drawn. 

“Indeed,  we  will  take  her  in;  she  shall  be  sur-' 
rounded  with  love  and  peace.  Perhaps  she  will  not 


A ^ NOVEL  77 


NOVEL. 


77 


even  wish  to  go  from  us,  but  have  no  fear.  The 
walls  are  high,  and  there  is  only  one  means  of 
egress — the  great  iron  gate  by  which  you  entered 
—and  no  one  goes  either  in  or  out  without  the 
knowledge  of  the  porter.  Is  she  still  all  this  time 
in  the  carriage  ? Oh,  let  us  fetch  her  in  at  once. 
The  suffering,  just  as  much  as  the  poor  or  the  sin- 
ful, we  have  always  with  us.77 

Then  she  led  the  wa}^  down  the  long,  silent  cor- 
ridor, summoned  one  or  two  sisters  on  her  way,  to 
render  any  assistance  that  might  be  needed,  and 
went  forth  to  meet  this  unknown  daughter. 

When  they  brought  her  in,  all  who  saw  her 
marveled  at  her  ethereal  loveliness.  So  fair,  so 
faint,  so  fragile-looking ; her  helplessness,  quite  as 
much  as  her  beauty,  won  those  gentle  hearts  for 
her  at  once.  She  walked  unaided,  but  there  was  a 
great  weakness  and  a great  weariness  in  her  step. 

Except  that  she  shuddered  slightly  as  her  eyes 
rested  for  a moment  on  the  cold  gray  walls  around 
her,  she  made  no  movement  and  she  spoke  no  word. 

Her  great  eyes  had  a strange,  dazed  look  about 
them,  as  if  even  the  power  of  suffering  was  gone. 

Till  the  kind  Mother  came  forward  and  took  both 
the  hands  of  this  sorrowing  daughter  in  her  own, 
and  bade  her  sweetest  welcome. 

Then  a faint,  slow  smile  shone  from  those  sad 
and  tearless  eyes,  that  had  seemed  to  see  nothing — a 
smile  which  said  better  than  any  words  could  say 
it : “ You  are  a friend  ; I will  trust  jmu.77 

Lord  de  Vere,  who  during  these  proceedings  had 
appeared  slightly  embarrassed,  after  a few  injunc- 
tions in  a low  voice  to  Maillard,  took  the  occasion 
to  depart. 

He  had  played  many  roles  in  his  life,  but  it  was 
the  first  time  he  had  assumed  that  of  a father 
weighed  down  with  anxious  paternal  concern.  Of 
the  further  adventures  “ by  flood  and  field  77  of  this 
heartless  old  scamp — more  anon  ! 

For  long  hours  his  daughter  lay  in  the  little 
room  to  which  they  took  her,  prostrate,  apparently 


78  A “novel”  novel. 

unconscious,  seeing1  nothing,  and  hearing  nothing. 
She  had  no  fever,  as  on  that  first  night  they  had 
feared  she  would  have.  Only  she  lay  there  with 
that  dull,  fixed  look  on  her  face — as  of  one  who 
knew  that  the  anguish  of  life  was  greater  far  than 
any  anguish  of  death  could  ever  be. 

Maiilard  very  soon  did  not  scruple  to  show  that 
she  thought  life  at  the  convent  an  intolerable  bore, 
but  kept  the  most  discreet  silence  on  every  other 
matter. 

When  she  saw  that  there  could  be  no  possible 
harm  in  it,  she  left  her  charge  a good  deal  in  the  hands 
of  the  sisters,  and  amused  herself  as  best  she  could, 
either  in  the  refectories,  or  by  taking  herself  off  to 
a nice  set  luded  part  of  the  gardens,  where  she  might 
indulge  in  the  light,  questionable  literature  with 
which  she  had  taken  care  to  well  provide  herself. 

So  they  ministered  to  this  sad  and  lonely  daugh- 
ter who  had  come  among  them  so  strangely — these5 
gentle  sisters  of  the  Sacre  Coeur.  They  waited  on 
her  with  a beautiful  devotion.  The  finest  grapes ; 
and  peaches  that  the  gardens  grew  were  all  for  her. 
Odorous  late  roses  were  put  freshly  in  her  chamber 
every  day.  Through  her  open  lattice  all  the  dear 
old  convent  scents  and  sounds  came  in  on  the  wings 
of  the  autumn  winds — the  scents  of  lavender  and 
jessamine,  the  sounds  of  holy  chant  and  psalm. 

Slowly,  under  these  tender  influences,  her; 
strength  of  mind  and  body  both  began  to  mend.' 
She  was  interested  in  what  went  on  around  her. 

The  sweet,  serene  lives  of  these  white-robed  Sis- ' 
ters  cf  the  Cross  appealed  to  her  with  an  irresistible 
appeal. 

She  wondered,  vaguely,  if  it  would  be  perhaps 
possible  that  she  herself  might  of  her  own  free  will 
live  here  amongst  them  for  ever,  silently  carrying 
her  agony  with  her  to  the  grave. 

But  even  as  she  wondered  thus,  pacing  the  quiet 
garden  walks,  her  eyes  filled  suddenly  with  a des- 
perate longing. 

For  she  thought  of  the  life  that  might  have  been 

-m 


A “ novel’'  novel.  79 

hers,  the  life  far  away,  outside  those  great,  high 
convent  walls. 

She  thought  of  the  night  before  her  marriage, 
how  at  a State  ball,  a prince  of  the  blood,  with 
whom  she  had  the  honor  to  be  dancing,  had  ex- 
pressed a hope  that  he  would  meet  herself  and  the 
Duke  that  autumn,  at  a certain  great  house  in  the 
North. 

She  thought  of  the  beautiful,  the  pleasant,  the 
graceful  life  which  she  and  her  gallant  lover  had 
planned  so  joyfully  together,  of  the  good  they 
meant  to  do  and  of  the  sadness  they  would  relieve. 

Until  the  pain  of  it  all  seemed  more  than  she 
could  bear. 

Still,  she  never  doubted  that,  knowing  what  she 
did,  she  had  done  rightly  in  leaving  him  within  one 
short  hour  almost  of  her  wedded  life. 

Only  the  longing  was  strong  and  wild  in  her  at 
times  to  send  him  one  line,  one  word,  just  to  sa>y 
that  she  loved  him  more  than  her  life,  and  that  her 
loyalty  would  be  unto  death.  Cruel  and  remorse- 
less hands  had  taken  from  her,  while  she  lay  un- 
conscious, the  glorious  jewel  which  had  been  his 
bridal  gift  to  her,  but  its  motto,  “ Loyal  a Mort,” 
would  be  her  watchword  to  the  end. 

A plan  half  formed  itself  in  her  tortured  brain 
that  she  might  at  least  write  to  her  darling’s  sis- 
ter, Lady  Allonby,  to  whom  alone  she  had  confided 
the  full  horror  of  that  first  early  marriage,  six  years 
or  more  ago. 

Or  surely  into  the  ears  of  that  Mother  Supe- 
rior, so  good  and  kind,  she  might  pour  some  part  of 
her  sorrow,  and  get  comfort,  and  perhaps  assist- 
ance, too. 

Or  was  it  better  still  to  be  forever  silent  ? 

As  she  thought  on  all  these  things  she  was 
walking  in  the  beautiful  yew  walk  with  one  of 
the  sisters  to  whom  she  had  become  especially 
attached. 

It  had  been  one  of  those  bright,  calm — if  one 
might  say  so,  one  of  those  holy — days,  which  the 


80 


A “novel”  novel. 

late  autumn  sometimes  brings  in  her  golden 
train. 

The  sun  had  gone  down,  and  one  or  two  stars 
were  trembling  in  the  pale  sky. 

From  the  little  chapel  a glorious  harmony  poured 
forth  on  to  the  still  evening  air. 

“ Tell  me,  what  are  they  singing?”  she  asked 
of  the  sister  at  her  side. 

“ Dear,  they  are  chanting  for  the  repoSe  of  the 
souls  of  those  who  have  died.” 

Came  back  the  sorrowful,  sweet  reply  : “ Do 

they  e^-er  pray  for  the  repose  of  the  souls  of  those 
who  live  ? ” 


CHAPTER  XI. 

By  Mrs.  J.  M.  Bull. 

Let  us  leave  the  unfortunate  Duchess  of  Mow- 
bray to  gain  strength  of  mind  and  body  among  the 
sweet  sisters  of  the  convent  of  the  Sacre  Coeur,  and 
let  us  see  what  the  poor  Duke,  her  forsaken  hus- : 
band,  is  doing  all  this  time. 

He  had  not  been  pronounced  fit  to  travel  until 
the  end  of  August,  and  then,  accompanied  by  his 
faithful  friends,  Lyndhurst  and  Tredegar,  he  started 
to  the  Continent  to  personally  conduct  the  weary 
search.  i 

_ The  German  police  had  failed  to  obtain  even  the; 
slightest  clew  to  the  whereabouts  of  the  fugitives,  - 
and  so  they  were  obliged  to  content  themselves; 
with  adding  the  chloroforming  of  Gretchen  to  the  i 
already  black  record  against  De  Yere. 

Bolton,  equally  unsuccessful  and  bitterly  humili- 
ated, had  offered  voluntarily  to  throw  up  the  case, 
and  let  another  man  take  his  place,  but  the  Duke, 
who  felt  that  he  had  done  all  that  was  possible,  and 
who  was  touched  by  his  personal  interest  in  the  case, 
would  not  hear  of  his  resignation.  So  wherever  the 
three  friends  journeyed  Bolton  was  in  close  attend- 
ance upon  them,  but,  alas  ! their  efforts  had  not 
been  crowned  with  success,  and  it  really  seemed  as 


A “NOVEL  ” NOVEL. 


81 


if  the  earth  must  have  opened  and  swallowed  up 
the  Duchess,  her  maid,  and  De  Yere,  so  entirely  had 
they  disappeared. 

Often  and  often  had  Bolton  to  recount  to  the 
Duke  his  interview  with  the  Duchess  in  the  Park 
train,  and  the  Duke  prized  the  ring-  she  had  sent  him 
then  more  than  anything  he  had  left  in*  the  world. 
One  day,  late  in  October,  the  three  friends  sat  at 
breakfast  in  the  Hotel  Victoria,  Dresden.  The 
Duke,  who  seemed,  if  possible,  more  depressed  than 
usual  this  morning,  pushed  away  his  cup  impa- 
tiently, and  went  out  on  the  balcony,  where  h@ 
threw  himself  into  a chair,  and  sat,  and  brooded. 

Poor  Carrol  ! Who  could  apply  his  old  nickname 
of  “Society’s  Darling”  to  him  now?  Thin  and 
gaunt,  with  hollow  cheeks,  sorrow  had  marked  him 
for  her  own,  and  a hopeless,  yearning  look  in  his 
eyes  went  to  the  hearts  of  those  who  loved  him. 

“ I say,  Tredegar,”  said  Lyndhurst  to  his  friend 
inside ; “ I really  feel  as  if  I should  commit  suicide 
myself — Mowbray  wouldn’t  even  make  a decent 
ghost  of  hip  former  self.  If  only  we  could  cheer 
him  up  up  a little  bit  it  would  be  encouraging,  but 
he  seems  to  get  worse,  instead  of  better,  every  day.** 
“Well,”  returned  Tredegar,  “you  know,  it  is 
rather  a blow  to  lose  a wife  just  as  one  has  married 
her.” 

“Yes,  poor  old  boy,  I know.  Well,  my  leave  will 
be  up  next  week,  but  I should  like  this  mystery  to 
be  solved  before  I retire  from  the  field.” 

“ No  chance  for  that,  I’m  afraid,”  said  Tredegar, 
“Well,  I,  being  a free-lance,  shall  stick  to  old  Mow- 
bray as  long  as  he  wants  me.  What  was  his  mo- 
tive, do  you  think,  in  coming  to  Dresden  again  ? ” 

“ Can’t  say,  but  he  evidently  had  a motive.  Did 
you  notice  yesterday  morning  how  bright  he  seemed* 
and  how  bent  he  was  on  getting  here  as  quickly  as 
possible.  When  we  arrived  he  seemed  to  be  ex- 
pecting something  to  happen,  but  nothing  did,  of 
course,  and  to-day  his  spirits  have  sunk  to  zero 
again.  Don’t  you  think,  Tredegar,  that  a con  vie- 


82 


A “ NOVEL  ” NOVEL. 


tion  comes  over  him  now  and  again  that  the  firsl 
husband  is  living?  You  know  he  has  had  lots  o: 
inquiries  set  on  foot  about  him,  and  no  one  seems 
absolutely  certain  of  his  death.” 

“ Well,  alive  or  dead,  he  seems  to  have  been  a 
bad  iot,  said  Tredegar.  “ I should  think  he  and 
that  beast  De  vere  must  have  been  congenial 
spirits.” 

“Hush!”  whispered  Clive  Lyndhurst : “here 
comes  Mowbray.” 

, 1 redegar,”  said  the  Duke,  “ would  you  mind 

looking*  up  Bolton,  and  seeing  if  he  has  any  news 
to-day  ? Will  you  take  a turn  with  me,  Clive  ? 
I ve  got  such  a wretched  headache  this  morning/5 
Both  men  cordially  agreed,  for  they  would  have 
done  anything  to  lighten  the  heavy  burden  on  their 
friend’s  shoulders. 

‘‘  Clive,”  said  Mowbray,  taking  his  arm,  as  they 
walked  out  of  the  hotel  together,  44  I daresay  you' 
wondered  yesterday  at  my  eagerness  to  get  to 
Dresden  from  Prague.  Now,  you  are  the  oldest 
friend  I have  in  the  world,  and  I know  you  will  not 
laugh  at  me.  Do  you  believe  in  dreams,  Clive  ? ” 
Well,  I don’t  know,”  replied  Clive,  slowly,  as 
visions  of  awful  nightmares  he  had  had  rose  before 
him.  “I  think  they  are  very  real  sometimes.” 

“ The  night  before  last,”  the  Duke  went  on,  “I 
saw  Seringa  quite  plainly  in  a dream.  She  looked 
pale  and  ill,  and  her  eyes  shone  like  two  stars.  She* 
beckoned  to  me,  and  I heard  her  calling  4 Carrol/ 
I tried  to  answer  her,  but  could  not  speak.  Then! 
she  sSid,  ‘ Go  to  Dresden.5  I held  out  my  arms  to 
her,  and  in  the  effort  to  call  out  to  her  I awoke. 
Now  you  know  why  I wanted  to  come  to  Dresden. 
I don’t  know  what  I expected  to  happen,  but  when 
we  got  here,  and  nothing  fresh  turned  up,  my  heart 
sank.  I went  to  bed  hoping  and  praying  that  she 
would  appear  again,  but  I was  disappointed  ; I did 
not  dream  at  all.  What  do  you  think  the  dream 
meant,  Clive  ? 55 

“ I don’t  know  at  all,55  was  Clive’s  reply ; “ but 


A “ NOVEL” 


NOVEL. 


82 


don’t  distress  yourself,  old  boy.  Something*  ma;s 
turn  up  yet.” 

They  were  walking  down  the  Schloss  Strasse  a^ 
they  talked,  and  the  Duke  looked  eagerly  aboui 
him.  He  paused  outside  a large  jeweler’s  shop. 

“ Ah  ! Clive,”  said  he,  mournfully,  “ I’m  afraid 
I shall  never  have  to  buy  trinkets  for  a woman 
again.” 

“ Why  not  ? ” returned  his  friend  ; “ why,  be 
fore  long  I hope  you  will  be  buying  them  for  you 
wife  again.” 

Finding  that  the  Duke  did  not  respond  to  hit 
cheering  reply,  Lyndhurst,  who  had  been  looking 
down  the  street,  turned  round,  and  found  him  star- 
ing speechlessly  at  the  jeweler’s  window,  with  a 
face  from  which  every  particle  of  color  had  fled. 

“ Good  heavens,  man  ! ” cried  Clive,  “ what  or 
earth  is  the  matter?  You  look  as  if  you  had  see* 
a ghost.” 

“The  bracelet!  the  bracelet!”  gasped  the 
Duke. 

“What  bracelet,  and  where?”  cried  the  be 
wildered  Guardsman. 

“ There,”  said  the  Duke,  pointing  to  the  win 
dow  ; “ Seringa’s  bracelet.” 

“ Is  it,  really  ? ” asked  Clive,  getting  excited  ir 
his  turn.  “ But  are  you  quite  sure,  old  boy  ? ” 

“Positive.  I had  it  designed  for  her.  Cannot 
you  see  the  ‘ Loyal  a Mort  ? ’ It  has  been  tampered 
with,  but  it  is  Seringa’s  bracelet.  And  Clive,  i 
remember  now,”  he  went  on  piteously,  “ she  hadn’t 
it  on  in  the  dream.  She  came  to  tell  me  where  it 
was.  God  bless  her  ! ” 

“ Well,  let  us  go  in  and  buy  it.  We  may  per 
haps  get  a clew  through  this.  You  keep  quiet,  ol 
fellow,  I’ll  do  the  talking;  ” and  Clive  led  the  wa 
into  the  shop. 

The  bracelet  was  instantly  produced  for  his  in 
spectien.  The  Duke  took  it  eagerly.  The  miniatur 
had,  of  course,  been  removed,  and  the  lid  contain- 
ing the  hair,  with  the  Duke’s  coronet  and  initial 


84  A “novel”  novel. 

outside,  had  been  replaced  by  one  of  plain  gold. 
The  date  of  marriage  on  the  inner  side  of  the  brace- 
let had  been  obliterated,  but  the  words  “This  and 
my  heart  ” were  still  there.  The  Duke,  speechless 
with  emotion,  nodded  to  Clive,  who  at  once  agreed 
to  buy  the  bracelet  at  the  price  named. 

“ Do  you  remember,”  said  Lyndhurst,  care- 
lessly, to  the  jeweler.  “ where  you  got  that  brace- 
let ? ” 

“ Oh,  yes,  sir,”  he  replied.  “It  belongs  to  my 
brother,  who  is  a goldsmith  at  Bautzen.  He 
thought  that  he  would  have  few  chances  of  selling 
it  there,  and  so  asked  me  to  show  it  in  my  window 
for  him.” 

“ Can  you  give  us  any  information  as  to  who 
sold  him  the  bracelet  ? ” 

“None  whatever,  sir.” 

“ Did  he  say  if  there  was  any  mystery  about  the, 
purchase  of  the  bracelet  ? ” 

“ Certainly  not,  sir,  or  he  would  not  have  bought 
it,  and  I should  not  be  selling  it.  No  respectable 
jeweler  would,”  he  answered,  with  dignify. 

The  Duke  wrote  a check  for  the  bracelet.  Clive 
obtained  the  brother’s  name  and  address,  and  they 
left  the  shop. 

As  they  returned  to  their  hotel,  eagerly  discuss- 
ing the  matter,  they  met  Tredegar  and  Bolton,  to! 
whom  they  recounted  their  adventure. 

Bolton  brightened  visibly.  This  life  of  inaction' 
was  very  trying  to  his  energetic  spirit. 

“ It’s  the  maid  who  has  done  this  little  job,  your] 
Cfrace ; Lord  de  V ere  is  far  too  sharp  to  commit 
such  a blunder,”  he  remarked. 

They  caught  the  next  train  to  Bautzen,  and 
drove  to  the  address  given  them  by  the  jeweler  at 
Dresden. 

“ There  it  is  : ‘ Johann  Schmidt,’  ” cried  Lynd- 
hurst. 

The  Duke  and  Bolton  went  into  the  shop,  leav- 
ing Lyndhurst  and  Tredegar  in  the  carriage.  The 
Duke  showed  the  bracelet  to  Mr.  Schmidt,  and  told 


A “ NOVEL  ” 


NOVEL. 


85 


him  he  had  just  bought  it  in  his  brother’s  shop  at 
Dresden. 

“Yes,  sir,”  said  the  man;  “it  is  a beautiful 
bracelet.  I am  sure  you  will  find  it  a most  accept- 
able present.” 

“ Could  you  tell  us  where  you  got  it  ? ” asked 
Bolton,  quietly.  “ Is  it  from  Paris  ? ” 

“Oh,  no,”  replied  the  man.  “I  bought  it  about 
three  weeks  ago  of  a lady  who  was  leaving  Baut- 
zen, and  who  wished  to  dispose  of  it.” 

“ Did  she  say  why  she  wished  to  dispose  of 
it  P ” said  Bolton. 

“Because  it  reminded  her  of  a very  sad  epi- 
sode in  her  life  which  she  washed  to  forget.” 

“ Good  heavens!”  said  the  Duke,  in  English, 
“ it  must  have  been  Seringa,” 

“ Have  patience,  your  Grace,”  said  Bolton, 
aside.  “ What  was  the  lady  like  ? ” 

“ Of  medium  height,  with  a particularly  good 
figure,  and  dark  hair  and  eyes.” 

“That  is  Maillard,”  exclaimed  the  Duke. 

“ Are  you  aware,  sir,”  said  Bolton,  sternly,  to  the 
jeweler,  “ that  this  bracelet  was  stolen  property  ? ” 
“ Certainly  not,  and  I cannot  believe  it,”  he  re- 
plied. “ The  lady  was  beautifully  dressed,  and 
although  she  spoke  bad  German,  yet  many  En- 
glish ladies  do  so,-  and  I thought  nothing  of  it.  Be- 
sides, she  left  it  with  me  for  an  hour  to  examine  it 
while  she  went  shopping  in  the  town.  While  she 
was  absent,  my  shop-boy  told  me  that  he  had 
seen  her  at  the  convent  of  the  Sacre  Coeur  when 
he  was  visiting  his  grandfather,  the  porter,  there. 
After  hearing  that,  I bought  it  readily  enough.” 
“The  Duchess  may  be  at  the  convent  now,” 
said  the  excited  Duke  to  Bolton. 

“ One  moment,  your  Grace,”  said  the  detective. 
“ You  have  altered  this  bracelet  since  you  bought 
it?” 

“ Certainly  not,”  replied  the  now  deeply  offended 
jeweler.  “ I bought  it  in  exactly  its  present  condi- 
tion.” 


86  A “ novel”  novel. 

“Never  mind,”  said  the  Duke;  “ the  wretched 
girl  probably  had  it  altered  somewhere  else.  What 
we  want  to  know  is,  where  is  the  convent  ? ” 

The  jeweler  explained  that  it  would  take  some 
hours  to  drive  to  the  convent,  and,  as  it  was  already 
very  late,  the  Duke  was  obliged  to  smother  his  im- 
patience, and  wait  till  the  morning  for  the  expedi- 
tion. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

By  Mrs . J ’ Alexander  Kennedy . 

“ Farewell,  too— now  at  last— 

Farewell,  fair  lily.” 

In  an  abode  so  isolated,  and  where  life  was  so 
monotonous,  as  the  Convent  of  the  Sacre  Coeur,  on 
those  heights  near  Bautzen,  the  arrival  of  a guest 
would  have  been  at  all  times  welcome ; and  how 
much  more  so  when  the  guest  was  young,  lovely, 
and  refined,  as  this  fair  woman,  and  also  so  touch- 
ingly grateful  for  every  attention  or  little  kindness 
shown  to  her;  while  the  nuns  felt  that  it  was  they 
from  whom  thanks  were  due,  in  return  for  such  an 
object  of  interest  in  the  “ daily  round — the  common 
task.”*  And  especially  was  this  the  case  with  Soeur 
Marie,  who  from  the  first  had  been  the  guest’s 
most  sympathetic  and  constant  companion.  The 
sister  had  observed  Seringa  with  as  keen  an  eye  as 
Maillard  herself,  but  from  wholly  different  motives ; 
her  pure  and  unselfish  nature  could  not  bear  to  look 
on  suffering  and  not  try  to  aid  it,  and  from  the  first 
she  divined  that  their  guest’s  illness  was  due  to 
some  grief  which  was  crushing  this  gentle,  sensitive 
nature  beneath  its  weight,  and  the  kind  nun  longed 
to  know  the  cause,  from  no  thought  of  vulgar  curi- 
osity, but  that,  if  possible,  balm  might  be  found ; 
and  she  prayed  and  hoped  that  the  day  would  come 
when  their  guest  would  gain  confidence,  and  they 
would  take  sweet  counsel  together. 

More  than  once,  when  they  had  been  alone,  she 
had  thought  Seringa  was  on  the  point  of  telling  her 


A “ novel”  novel. 


87 


all.  But  no  ! Beyond  the  fact  that  she  was  sep- 
arated for  ever  ” from  a husband  whom  she  loved 
with  all  her  heart  and  soul,  Sceur  Marie  had  learnt 
no  more,  and  did  not  even  know  if  the  separation 
had  been  by  the  dread  hand  of  death  or  by  sin ; but 
of  one  thing*  she  felt  assured — if  by  the  latter,  that 
this  g*entle  creature  had  been  sinned  against,  and 
was  not  the  sinner.  And  then  Soeur  Marie,  who 
had  learnt  the  message  of  patience  long,  long  ago, 
crossed  herself,  and  waited,  knowing  well  that  time 
rarely  keeps  a secret. 

Once,  when  they  were  seated  in  the  sweet  old 
garden,  now  lovely  in  its  glorious  autumn  tints,  and 
where  the  last  rose  of  summer  lingered  in  all  its 
hesbuty,  seeing  Serin  g lost  in  thought  in  one  of  her 
habitual  sad  reveries,  ohe  sister  placed  her  arm  lov- 
ingly round  her,  saying,  “ What  sad  thoughts  are 
shutting  out  the  bright  sunshine,  dear?  ” 

“ The  past,”  with  a sigh  murmured  Seringa. 

“ Making  yourself  ill,”  again  with  a reproachful 
look  said  Marie,  “ when  the  good  Mother  and  we 
are  all  longing  to  see  the  roses  on  your  cheek  once 
again.” 

“ It  matters  little  whether  I am  ill  or  well. 
Amongst  all  the  poor  and  suffering  people  you  tend 
so  lovingly  you  will  not  find  a person  who  has  so 
little  hope,  or  a person  who  has  so  little  to  live  for, 
or  one  who  would  so  gladly  die.” 

Soeur  Marie  looked  very  grave  as  she  answered 
gently,  “ Look  around,  dear,  and  open  your  eyes. 
At  your  age  you  can  know  little  of  life  or  of  God's 
providence.  We  have  all  cause  for  thankfulness  in 
our  past,  our  present,  and  eternity  is  long.” 

“ Ah  ! dear  sister,”  said  Seringa,  “ I daresay 
that  you  are  right.  I am  ungrateful — wicked, 
what  you  will,  but  I can't  help  it ; you  cannot  un- 
derstand ; for  me  to  live  as  I am  is  worse  than 
death.  Oh  ! if  I could  open  lips  and  tell  you 
ali,”  and  with  these  words  Seringa  got  up,  broke 
what  remained  of  a beautiful  rose  in  her  hand,  and 
passed  quickly  from  the  garden  into  the  house.  The 


88  A “ novel”  novel. 

good  sister  sighed  as  she  looked  after  her,  and  felt 
that  a golden  opportunity  had  been  broken  also. 

In  a situation  in  any  way  resembling  Seringa’s, 
in  which  all  communication  with  friends  is  impos- 
sible, the  time  seems  supernaturally  long,  and  it 
seemed  to  her  as  if  she  had  lived  years  instead  of 
weeks  in  this  cloister.  Except  that  exit  from  the 
convent  was  forbidden  without  special  permission 
from  the  Superior,  a privilege  that  Seringa  had  not 
the  slightest  desire  to  obtain,  she  was  allowed  per- 
fect freedom  within  the  walls,  and  could  employ  her 
hours  as  she  pleased  in  all  respects.  Sometimes  she 
would  go  with  Soeur  Marie  to  the  little  chapel  and 
listen  to  the  simple  homilies  of  the  grave  old  Cure, 
and  the  words,  an  echo  of  those  she  had  often  heard 
in  other  days,  seemed  now  in  her  desolation  fraught 
with  a new  meaning,  as  he  spoke  of  the  sorrows  of 
man,  and  the  brief  time  in  which  he  will  have  to 
endure  them,  and  of  the  beautiful  city  (the  light  of 
which  seemed  already  to  shine  on  his  homely  and 
careworn  face — making  it  beautiful)  to  which  the 
Si  pilgrims  of  the  night  ” are ‘journeying. 

Seringa  felt  as  if  she  were  no  longer  the  same 
person  who,  a few  months  ago,  had  been  a “ belle  ” 
in  one  of  the  greatest  capitals  of  the  world,  and  her 
life  in  the  Cistercian  nunnery  moved  on  as  in  a 
dream. 

One  morning,  taking  her  accustomed  walk  in 
the  sweet  old  garden,  Seringa  was  surprised  to  see 
Sceur  Marie  approaching  her  with  an  unusual  ap- 
pearance of  excitement  on  her  placid  countenance, 
and  she  informed  Seringa  that  her  presence  was  re- 
quired in  the  visitors’  room  immediately,  and  that 
the  Mother  was  awaiting  her  there. 

“ What  for?  ” inquired  Seringa,  startled. 

“ Well,  I think,”  answered  the  sister,  “ that  the 
Herr  Dallas  is  there ; at  least,  I caught  sight  of  a 
gentleman  who  much  resembled  him.”  She  said  all 
this  in  a faltering  way,  for  she  intuitively  felt  that 
there  was’  no  love  lost  between  this  father  and 
daughter,  and  also  greatly  feared,  from  what  she 


A “NOVEL.”  NOVEL.  ' 89 

had  overheard,  that  he  had  come  to  take  her  loved 
friend  away  from  them. 

But  on  seeing  Seringa’s  frightened  face  on  hear- 
ing of  his  arrival,  she  said  nothing  of  this,  and 
merely  added  that  there  was  nothing  to  fear,  that 
the  Mother  was  there  to  arrange  all,  and  the  saints 
would  protect  her. 

Seringa  followed  Sceur  Marie  into  the  house  with 
a sinking  heart,  feeling  that  this  unlooked-for  visit 
boded  evil. 

The  room  reserved  for  visitors  and  official  visits 
was  not  large,  but  presented  a striking  and  quaint 
interior.  It  was  paneled  with  oak,  black  with  age ; 
and  all  the  furniture  was  of  the  same  black  oak, 
curiously  carved,  and  polished  until  it  shone  again. 
There  were  a few  religious  prints  on  the  walls,  and 
a case  containing  books  of  a devotional  character. 
In  the  center  of  this  room  was  a large  square  tal  , 
on  which  stood  a vase  containing  a few  bright  au- 
tumn flowers,  giving  the  one  spot  of  life  and  color 
that  was  wanting  to  complete  the  quaint  beauty  of 
the  room. 

Here,  seated  in  one  of  the  high-backed  chairs. 
Seringa  saw  her  father,  and  at  the  sight  of  his 
dark,  unsympathetic  face,  associated  in  her  mind 
with  so  many  painful  memories,  she  felt  as  if  she 
were  about  to  faint,  and  the  Mother,  seeing  her 
pallor,  hastily  guided  her  to  a chair. 

“ Voila,  Monsieur  ! I told  you  that  your  daugh- 
ter was  not  yet  strong  enough  for  sudden  excite- 
ments.” 

Captain  Dallas  bowed  gravely  and  ceremoni- 
ously to  the  Mother,  and  regretted  he  had  been 
unable  to  prepare  his  dear  daughter  for  his  visit, 
but  his  business  with  her  was  most  unexpected  and 
most  important,  and  he  begged  permission  for  a 
few  moments’  conversation  alone  with  his  child. 

As  soon  as  the  Mother  with  Sceur  Marie  had  left 
the  room,  Seringa,  who  had  somewhat  recovered 
from  her  surprise,  said,  “Tell  me  why  you  are 


90 


A “novel,”  novel. 


here.  I thought  I had  at  least  found  peace,  as  fai 
as  it  ever  can  be  mine  in  this  world.” 

“ Captain  Dallas  ” walked  across  the  room  and 
seated  himself  beside  her,  fixing  his  eyes  solemnly 
upon  her. 

“Is  anything  the  matter?”  Seringa  faintly 
asked. 

“ Yes,”  replied  her  father,  with  his  resolute 
eyes  still  fixed  upon  her— “ illness.” 

“Merciful  heavens!  ” cried  Seringa.  “ Who— 
what  do  you  mean — of  whom  are  you  talking?  ” 

“ Of  the  Duke  of  Mowbray,”  her  father  an- 
swered. 

“The  Duke  of  Mowbray,  my  husband,  my 
lover  ! ” Seringa  gasped,  white  as  ashes  ; “ is  he  — 
is  he  gone  f ” she  faintly  asked. 

“ No,”  replied  her  father,  “ but  he  is  in  danger, 
and  if  you  wish  to  see  him  you  must  come  with  me 
at  once  ! ” s 

“ With  you ! to  see  the  Duke  of  Mowbray  ? ” 
said  Seringa,  with  an  incredulous  look;  for,  recov- 
ering somewhat  from  her  first  surprise,  she  knew  ! 
full  well  that  there  was  no  trusting  this  smooth 
tongue.  “ Why,  you  do  not  know  him ; you  have 
never  even  seen  him  J ” 

“ Strange  events  have  occurred  since  you  and  I 
met  last,  Seringa.  Not  only  do  I know  the  Duke  : 
of  Mowbray,  but  I saw  him  not  a few  hours  ago  ! j 
But  there  is  no  time  to  be  lost  if  you  mean  to  ac- 
company  me  to  see  him,  or  you  may  be  too  late  1 
I here  will  be  time  enough  to  talk  en  route.  Will 
you  come  ? ” 1 

“ Where?” 

“ To  Dresden.” 

“Dresden?”  repeated  Seringa,  mechanically, 
and  still  incredulous. 

“Yes;  and  to  prove  the  truth  of  what  I am 
telling  you,  look  here,”  and  he  drew  from  his  pocket 
a copy  of  a Dresden  daily  paper  and  pointed  to  a 
paragraph. 

Seringa  took  the  paper  and  endeavored  to  read, 


A “novel”  novel. 


91 


but  slie  was  so  agitated  and  trembling  that  the 
words  seemed  to  dance  before  her  eyes.  But  at 
last  she  read  it,  and  found  it  was  merely  an  ac- 
count of  the  arrival  of  visitors  at  the  Hotel  Vic- 
toria, Dresden,  amongst  which  were  noted  the 
“Duke  of  Mowbray  and  suite,  Angleterre,”  which 
so  far  confirmed  the  assertions  of  her  father  as  to 
the  Duke’s  whereabouts,  and  at  this  moment  he 
said,  “ If  you  have  any  further  doubts  of  my  disin- 
terestedness, look  here  ! ” and  he  held  up  what  ap- 
peared to  Seringa  to  be  the  ring  that  she  had  sent  to 
the  Duke  by  Bolton  ! 

At  seeing  this  token  she  started  up,  staring  at 
it  wildty,  knowing  full  well  that  the  Duke  would 
never  have  parted  with  it  except  under  extraor- 
dinary circumstances. 

Then  begging  her  father  to  tell  her  all — “ What 
is  it  ? what  is  it  ? Is  the  danger  great  ? Oh  ! my 
darlin.^,  my  darling  ! ” 

“ Compose  yourself,”  said  her  father,  in  stern, 
measured  accents ; and  poor  Seringa  felt  paralyzed 
under  his  glance.  “ If  you  wish  to  accompany  me 
you  can  do  so  at  once.  I have  made  all  arrange- 
ments for  the  journey,  and  I have  a carriage  in 
waiting.” 

Seringa  stood  motionless  for  a moment,  making 
a tremendous  effort  to  master  her  emotions,  and 
then  turning  to  her  father,  said,  “ Take  me  to  him; 
only  take  me  to  him  ! ” 

The  Mother  Superior,  who  entered  the  room  at 
this  moment,  heard  Seringa’s  last  words,  and  stood 
looking  on  helpless  and  perplexed.  How  could  she 
prevent  this  unhappy  girl  being  taken  from  her,  as 
she  felt  no  faith  in  this  father’s  love  ? But  she  was 
powerless. 

Within  half-an-hour  Seringa  found  herself  sit- 
ting in  a carriage  beside  her  father,  and  with 
Maillard  sitting  opposite,  the  latter’s  face  smirking 
with  the  utmost  expression  of  content  at  this  es- 
cape. 

. The  Mother  and  the  sorrowful  group  of  sisters 


92  A “ NOVEL  ” NOVEL. 

stood  within  the  great  entrance  gate  waving  their 
adieux,  amid  fast  falling  tears  and  prayers  for 
the  safety  and  return  of  this  loved  creature. 

As  the  carriage  drove  away  from  the  convent 
a mist  was  spreading  over  the  surrounding  hills, 
and  it  seemed  to  Seringa  prophetic  of  her  own 
future  of  gloom  and  uncertainty. 

* * * * * * 

Those  were  not  the  only  visitors  that  day.  But 
a few  hours  had  elapsed  when  the  Mother  Supe- 
rior was  informed  that  three  English  gentlemen 
wished  to  speak  with  her  on  important  business. 

In  the  little  room,  where  so  recently  she  had 
spoken  with  the  Duchess  and  her  father,  she  found 
her  new  visitors — one  of  them  of  distinguished  ap- 
pearance, but  gaunt  and  anxious-looking,  who  in- 
troduced himself  as  “ Lord  Mowbray,”  and,  giving 
a description  of  their  late  guest,  inquired  with  a 
wild,  yearning  look  in  his  eyes,  if  the  lady  was  still ; 
in  the  convent. 

Clasping  her  hands  Avith  a muttered  prayer,  the: 
Mother  replied,  “Alas!  alas!  she  left  this  morn-- 
ing  with  her  father.” 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

By  Miss  Ethel  Mackenzie. 

As  THE  carriage  containing  “ Captain  Dallas  ” j 
and  his  daughter  drove  through  the  lodge  gates, 
Seringa  raised  herself  and  looked  back  once  more  at 
the  kind  sisters  who  had  done  all  they  could  to  help  J 
her  in  her  hour  of  sorrow.  Then  sinking  down  once 
more  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  crying, 

“ My  God,  only  let  me  see  him  alive  ! ” 

Lord  de  Yere,  leaning  back  in  his  own  corner, 
took  out  a newspaper  to  while  away  the  time.  After 
perhaps  half  an  hour,  the  Duchess  turned  to  him 
and  said,  “ Tell  me  all ; is  there  no  hope  ? And  j 
how  did  you  come  to  see  him  ? ” 

He  looked  at  her  strangely  for  a moment,  and 
she  even  fancied  that  this  cold,  heartless,  wicked 


A 


NOVEL 


NOVEL. 


93 


man  seemed  to  be  moved  to  pity.  “ You  will  know 
all  when  we  arrive  at  Dresden;  till  then  I will  tell 
you  nothing.” 

“ But,  at  least,  give  me  my  ring,  that  I may 
have  something  that  belonged  to  him.” 

Lord  de  Yere  hesitated  a moment,  and  then, 
taking  the  ring  from  his  waistcoat  pocket,  placed  it 
in  her  hands. 

Seringa  looked  at  it  lovingly  for  a moment,  and 
was  about  to  raise  it  to  her  lips,  when,  wuth  a great 
cry,  she  tried  to  rise  from  her  seat  and  open  the 
door.  “ What  have  you  done  ? The  ring ; it  is  not 
mine.  Let  me  out.  Oh,  why  did  I ever  believe 
you  ? ” 

Lord  de  Yere  caught  her  by  the  arm,  and  forced 
her  back  into  her  place  again. 

“ What  folly  is  this  ? Not  your  ring  ? ” 

“ No,  no.  I should  know  mine  anywhere.  This 
is  like  it,  but  I could  never  mistake  it.  Tell  me,  I 
beseech  you,  what  it  all  means  ! ” 

“ It  means  that  I am  not  such  a fool  as  you 
think,  and  by  fair  means  or  foul  I will  keep  you 
till  you  do  my  bidding.  Had  I left  you  but  one 
hour  more  at  the  convent  the  Duke  would  have 

been  there.  I ” But  looking  round  he  saw 

that  his  daughter  had  fainted,  and  he  relapsed 
once  more  into  silence,  leaving  Maillard  to  revive 
her  mistress  as  best  she  could.  Had  Seringa  been 
more  alive  to  what  was  passing  she  would  have 
noticed  that  they  had  some  time  since  left  the 
high  road,  and  were  no  longer  going  towards 
Dresden. 

The  Duchess’s  faint  proved  long,  and  some  hour 
or  more  elapsed  before  she  recovered  consciousness, 
only  to  find  that  the  carriage  was  driving  rapidly 
through  a thick  wood. 

Presently  it  drew  up  before  a long,  lowT  house, 
and  her  father  alighted  and  half  carried  her  into 
the  house,  and  placed  her  on  a sofa  in  the  salon , 
then  left  her  alone.  Then  he  and  Maillard  dis- 
cussed the  arrangement  of  the  luggage.  Seringa 


94  A “novel”  novel. 

lay  back  wearily,  wondering  what  was  now  going 
to  happen  to  her,  when  the  door  re-opened,  and  a 
German  waiting-maid  entered,  bearing  a tea-tray, 
which  she  placed  on  a small  table  near  the  sofa. 

“ My  lady  must  want  some  refreshment  after 
her  long  drive.  Shall  I pour  out  a cup  of  tea  ? ” 
The  invalid  started  up.  Could  it  be  — yes, 
surely  — “ Gretchen  ! ” 

The  maid  laid  her  finger  on  her  lips.  “Say 
not  a word,  dear  lady.  They  think  I am  their 
friend.  I will  guard  you  well.”  Then,  as  the  door 
opened  to  admit  Lord  de  Yere : “ Madame  had 

better  drink  her  tea,  or  she  will  be  ill.  Do  I not 
say  truly,  monsieur  ? ” 

“ Yes,  truly;  bub  leave  us  now,  and  see  we  are 
not  disturbed.”  He  then  seated  himself  beside  his 
daughter,  and,  after  a few  seconds,  began: 

“ I would  willingly  have  left  you  at  the  convent, 
bub,  as  you  must  see,  it  was  impossible.  I should  ! 
think  by  this  time  you  were  almost  tired  of  your 
present  life— a life  which  at  any  moment  you  can  , 
end  by  doing  my  will.  But  I warn  you  I am  very 
patient,  and  I flatter  myself,”  he  added,  with  a 
smile,  “ far  more  capable  of  eluding  any  number  of 
detectives — professional  or  amateur — than  they  are 
of  trapping  me.  Here  I fancy  thejr  will  not  find 
you,  and  I have  engaged  Gretchen  to  see  to  all 
household  work.  Maillard  also  will  remain,  and  if 
at  any  time  you  want  me  she  will  communicate 
with  me.  The  only  check  I wish  to  place  on  your 
liberty  is  that  if  you  wish  to  walk  farther  than  the 
garden,  one  of  the  two  I have  named  shall  go  with 
you.  I can  trust  them,”  he  added,  significantly. 

“ Am  I,  then,  a prisoner  here  ? At  least  tell  me 
where  I am,  and  what  of  my  husband  ? ” 

“ As  well  as  ever  he  was,  I fancy.  At  least  he 
was  this  morning.  This  is  the  White  House,  but 
where,  matters  not.  If  you  don’t  know,  there  is 
no  fear  of  your  letting  it  out.  Women’s  tongues 
cannot  be  relied  on.  And  now  I must  go,  and  I 
trust  that  all  will  be  made  comfortable  for  you. 


A “novel”  novel. 


95 


Believe  me,  I have  no  wish  to  detain  you  longer 
than  my  own  safety  demands.” 

The  Duchess  said  never  a word ; a new  hope 
had  entered  her  soul,  and  she  could  bear  all  now. 
Gretchen  was  to  be  trusted,  she  felt  sure  ; she  was 
no  longer  without  a friend ; and  as  the  sound  of 
the  wheels  of  Lord  de  Vere’s  carriage  died  away 
in  the  distance,  she  turned  her  head,  and,  tired 
out  with  all  she  had  gone  through,  fell  asleep.  It 
was  late  when  she  awoke,  refreshed,  and  after 
making  a pretense  of  eating  the  supper  put  before 
her,  she  allowed  Maillard  to  conduct  her  upstairs 
to  bed,  where  sleep  once  more  came  to  her  aid. 

How  long  she  slept  she  knew  not  — but  she 
awoke  with  a start  to  hear  a voice  whispering  in 
her  ear : “ Keep  quiet,  my  lady,  and  listen  to 
me.  Maillard  sleeps,  a little  chloral  in  her  wine  at 
supper  has  settled  that,  but  I will  not  light  a 
lamp,  for  fear;  we  know  not  what  dangers  sur- 
round us.  Tell  me  quick  where  your  husband  is, 
and  if  you  wish  him  to  know  where  you  are.” 

Happily,  Seringa  had  taken  good  note  of  the 
hotel  mentioned  in  the  Dresden  paper,  and  told 
Gretchen  all  she  knew,  adding  that  she  wished  her 
husband  to  know  at  once  where  she  was.  Gretchen 
then  said  : 

“ To-morrow  a letter  will  arrive  from  my 
mother,  who  will  be  ill,  and  I will  ask  Maillard  for 
a day’s  holiday.  I will  insist.  Dresden  will  do  as 
well  as  Berlin.  I will  be  absent  one  night.  The 
day  after  to-morrow,  a little  more  chloral  will  do 
no  harm,  and  then  all  will  be  easy.” 

The  Duchess  sat  up  in  bed,  and  putting  her  arms 
round  the  girl’s  neck,  cried  like  a child.  Gretchen 
comforted  her,  and  as  the  first  faint  streaks  of 
dawn  appeared,  se  ing  that  her  mistress  once 
more  slept,  she  crept  back  to  her  own  room  for 
fear  of  arousing  the  suspicion  of  Maillard.  Next 
day  Maillard  was  very  ill-tempered,  and  informed 
her  mistress  that  Gretchen’s  mother  was  ill  and 
had  summoned  her  daughter,  and,  added  she,  “If 


96  A “NOVEL”  novel. 

the  letter  had  not  been  from  the  cure,  I should  no 
let  her  go ; these  peasants  will  do  anything-  for  j 
holiday.”  ° 

How  long-  the  day  seemed  ! Sering-a  used  to  say 
in  looking*  back  on  that  day,  that  she  seemed  tc 
have  lived  a year,  and  have  prayed  as  many  pray 
er^  as  a hermit  who  had  lived  for  a century  in  th( 
desert.  Late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  following  da\ 
G-retchen  arrived,  but  even  then  it  was  some  time 
before  she  saw  the  Duchess.  By  supper  time  the 
latter  was  so  impatient  that  she  could  hardly  con- 
tain herself.  Gretchen  looked  as  placid  as  ever, 
and  only  once-  during  the  meal,  when  she  passed 
near  her  lady’s  chair  and  Maillard  had  left  the  next 
room  and  gone  upstairs,  did  she  find  a moment  to 
whisper,  “ All  is  well  so  far.” 


CHAPTER  XIV k 

By  Mrs . Vallance . 

“ What  will  not  woman,  gentle  woman,  dare 
When  strong  affection  stirs  her  spirit  np  P ”—Madoc.  - 

As  THE  Duke  of  Mowbray  returned  with  his 
friends  from  his  interview  with  the  Mother  Superior 
in  the  Convent  of  the  Sacre  Coeur,  from  whom  they 
learnt  Lord  de  Vere’s  latest  treachery  to  the  Duch- 
ess, they  were  occupied  in  considering  what  steps 
they  should  next  pursue. 

They  had  gained  no  information  as  to  where-! 
that  bad  man  had  taken  his  daughter,  except  his 
statement  to  the  Mother  Superior,  when  he  placed 
Seringa  under  her  care,  that  he  was  on  his  way' 
into  Saxon  Switzerland.  They  were  inclined  to 
think  that  he  had  carried  that  intention  into  effect. 

* 14.  *e  ^,lke  exPressed  the  opinion,  which  he  had 
felt  from  the  first,  that  detectives  were  a horrible 
race. 

"What,”  he  exclaimed,  “have  they  done  for 
me!  I his  Englishman  has  not  helped  me  much; 
he  has  allowed  himself  to  be  outwitted  on  each  oc- 
casion, and  has  been  entirely  dependent  on  his  for- 


A “novel”  novel.  97 

eign  confreres . We  should  have  done  bettor  if  we 
had  depended  on  our  own  discretion.” 

“ My  dear  friend,”  said  Lyndhurst,  “ I think 
,you  are  a little  unjust  to  Bolton.  Had  he  not  char- 
tered the  engine,  we  should  not  have  known  where 
the  Duchess  was  carried  out  of  England ; he  has 
been  unfortunate,  it  is  true,  but  I believe  he  has 
done  his  best.” 

“ His  best  to  destroy  my  faith  in  the  purest  life 
that  has  ever  been  led.  But  perhaps  he  meant  well 
— although  Lady  Allonby  thinks,  and  I agree  with 
her,  that  he  drove  Lord  de  Yere  to  take  his  daugh- 
ter out  of  England.” 

“ How  so  ? ” 

“ By  his  premature  questions  put  to  the  woman 
Maillard,  he  raised  her  suspicions,  and  lost  Cecilia 
the  opportunity  to  enlist  her  services  for  us  instead 
of  against  us.  She  has  known  Maillard  as  long  as 
she  has  my  wife,  and.  might  have  influenced  her  in 
time;  but  it  is  clear  they  took  fright  and  bolted. 
I wish  Cecilia  were  here  now ; her  wit  is  better 
than  that  of  a dozen  detectives.” 

^ ^ 

Surely  the  spirits  had  been  at  work,  for  as  they 
alighted  at  the  hotel,  they  were  informed  that  a 
lady  and  gentleman  had  arrived  from  England,  and 
were  awTaiting  them  in  the  Duke’s  rooms. 

Hurrying  up  the  stairs,  they  were  surprised  and 
delighted  to  see  seated  there  Lord  and  Lady  Allonby. 

“ This  is  an  immediate  answer  to  my  wish ; you 
must  have  been  inspired,  Cecilia,  to  come  just  when 
I wanted  you.” 

“ I could  not  rest  after  your  departure ; waiting 
for  the  post  is  tedious,  so  1 thought  I should  prefer 
being  on  the  spot.  I am  glad  to  see  you  look  so 
much  better,  notwithstanding  your  trouble.  Now, 
Carrol,  tell  me  everything  from  the  beginning. 
Your  letters  are  so  confusing;  I could  not  make 
out  about  the  bracelet.” 

A long  conversation  ensued ; at  its  close,  Lady 
Allonby  said  : 


98  A “ novel”  novel. 

“ An  idea  has  occurred  to  me — Lord  de  Yere 
must  have  discovered  your  presence  here  through 
the  newspapers.  If  I am  to  he  of  any  use  to  you, 
he  must  not  know  of  my  arrival,  so  we, 55  looking* 
towards  her  husband,  “ will  be  plain  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Allen.  Our  names  are  not  yet  in  the  visitors’  book ; 
there  is  only  to  caution  the  servants,  who,  fortu- 
nately, are  of  the  old  school  and  can  be  thoroughly 
depended  on.  I have  a plan  ; the  first  step  towards 
carrying  it  out  is  to  find  out  where  Seringa  is  now. 
To  effect  that  we  must  know  if  she  was  removed  in 
a hired  or  a private  vehicle.” 

“ I can  supply  that  information,”  said  Tredegar. 
“ The  portress  at  the  convent  told  me  it  was  a hired 
one.” 

“That’s  good.  Then  it  will  not  be  so  difficult 
to  learn  where  she  is.  I daresay  the  landlord  of 
this  hotel  can  tell  you  where  the  principal  stables 
for  hire  are  to  be  found.  See*  what  you  can  do.  It 
is  too  late  to-night  to  take  more  active  steps  than 
these.  One  thing  more  I would  suggest,  that  we 
keep  this  plan  quite  to  ourselves;  and  whatever 
you  do,  remember  not  to  betray  my  husband’s  and 
my  presence  in  Dresden.  No  detective  shall  mar 
my  plot.  To-morrow,  who  knows  what  may  hap- 
pen ? ” 

Ah  ! who  does  know  how  near  to,  or  how  far  we 
are,  from  the  fulfillment  of  our  wishes  ? 

In  the  present  case  things  seemed  to  work  just 
as  Lady  Allonby  wished. 

On  the  morrow,  when  Gretchen  presented  her- 
self at  the  Victoria  Hotel,  she  was  shown  into  Mrs. 
Alleq’s  presence. 

After  some  preamble,  in  which  she  expressed  a 
wish  to  see  the  Duke  of  Mowbray,  she  was  made  to 
understand  that  the  lady  before  her  was  the  Duke’s 
sister,  and  the  Duchess’s  dearest  friend.  Satisfied 
of  this  at  last,  she  told  Mrs.  Allen  what  trouble 
the  Duchess  was  in.  Under  pretense  of  being  taken 
to  see  her  husband,  whom  she  believed  to  be  dying, 
she  had  been  deco3red  to  the  White  House,  where 


A “ novel’7  novel. 


99 


she  was  virtually  a prisoner.  She  also  told  Mrs. 
Allen  she  had  got  leave  of  absence  to  go  on  a pre- 
tended visit  to  her  sick  mother,  but  really  to  see 
the  Duke, 

Having  finished  her  tale,  she  looked  steadily  at 
Mrs.  Allen,  as  if  she  would  read  in  her  face  if  she 
were  capable  of  helping  to  release  the  dear  sweet 
lady  in  whom  she  took  so  much  interest. 

“1  don’t  think,  Madam,”  she  said,  “that  there 
will  be  any  chance  of  the  Duke  helping  his  lady  at 
present ; we  must  be  patient.  Captain  Dallas  has 
given  such  strict  orders  that  no  visitors  are  to  be 
allowed  there,  and  Maillard  is,  I believe,  afraid  of 
him,  or  she  is  paid  too  well  to  betray  him,  for  he 
puts  unbounded  faith  in  her ; but  I am  willing  to 
help  her.  X am  sure  she  will  not  get  away  from 
the  White  House  without  my  assistance;  it  will 
require  cunning  to  match  the  Captain.  If,  lady, 
you  will  excuse  me,  X think  I see  a way ; but 

” and  Gretchen  looked  carefully  round  to  see 

if  by  any  chance  they  could  be  overheard.  Lady 
Allonby  walked  to  the  door  to  see  if  they  were 
alone,  but  to  make  assurance  doubly  sure,  she  took 
Gretchen  into  her  own  room,  where  the  rest  of 
their  conversation  was  carried  on  in  whispers. 

Soon  after,  when  Gretchen  was  saying  a last 
few  words  before  leaving  the  hotel,  the  Duke  of 
Mowbray  returned,  and  was  astonished  at  the  tale 
his  sister  had  to  tell,  which  she  ended  by  saying  : 
“It  was  a most  fortunate  chance  which  inspired 
me  to  come  here,  Carrol,  to  your  assistance.  I 
feel  sure  without  me  just  at  this  crisis  you  would 
have  made  a dreadful  muddle  of  the  whole  affair— 
but  we  shall  see.  What  does  the  poet  say  ? — 

‘ If  the  heart  of  man  is  depress’d  with  care, 

The  mist  is  dispelled  when  a woman  appears.’ 

Let  us  hope  it  will  be  so  now,  my  dear  brother.  X 
bid  you  hope  that  before  long  Seringa  will  be  re» 
stored  to  you,  and  all  the  dreadful  past  be  really 
so,  and  forgotten.” 


100 


'novel”  novel. 


• i.  G^tchen’s  G vv  meaning1  words  infused  new  lift 
into  bennga,  but  she  was  careful  to  disg-uise  he 
happiness  before  Maillard,  who,  as  usual,  took  car< 
10  ber  charge  carefully  disposed  of  for  th< 
night  before  she  proceeded  to  enjoy  herself  with  hei 
■nightly  glass  and  yellow-backed  novel 

Gretchen  did  not  this  time  take  liberties  witl 
the  former,  she  rightly  conjectured  it  better  tc 
leave  that  performance  for  another  occasion.  Sc 

c Duchess  had  to  be  content  with  those  few  words 
and  something  else  which  excited  her  surprise  and 
raised  her  hopes. 

£mi^!i^ard  undressed  ber  mistress,  she  said  : 

1 hat  German  girl  has  brought  a message  from 
her  mother,  who  says  she  cannot  be  left  any  longer 
abjne,’  sbe  ,1S  subject  to  fits,  and  although  she  can 
get  about,  is  not  in  a state  to  be  left ; but  she  offers 
to  come  here  and  help  in  the  kitchen,  and  I must 
either  have  her  or  let  Gretchen  go,  which  would 
be  very  inconvenient.  Gretchen  says  her  mother 
will  not  trouble  anjmne  but  her,  so  if  your  Grace 
approves  I think  she  had  better  come.  I could  not 
do  all  the  work  of  this  large  house  alone ; I will 
write  to  Lord  de  V ere,  and  he  can  see  the  old  woman 
and  decide.” 

, , daTS  Maillard  informed  her  mistress 
that  the  oid  woman  had  come.  “ But,  as  usual,  I 
ha  ve  been  taken  in  ; she  is  too  infirm  to  give  much 
help,  and  half  Gretchen’s  time  will  be  taken  up  in 
waiting  on  her,  but  we  could  not  spare  Gretchen.; 
It  your  Grace  would  only  be  guided  by  me,  and 
comply  with  the  Earl’s  wishes,  we  might  all  go  back 
to  England.” 

“ How  dare  you  make  such  a proposition  to  me  ? 
x ou  forget  yourself,  Maillard  ! I never  would  have 
believed,  after  all  I have  done  for  you,  that  you 
would  have  been  so  treacherous  as  to  have  betrayed 
me  as  you  have  done,  or  have  lent  yourself  td  a de- 
grading falsehood.  For  it  is  one,  is  it  not?  Mail- 
lard ! by  the  remembrance  of  past  days,  when  you 
as  a village  girl  served  me  in  my  old  home,  tell  me 


A “novel”  novel. 


101 


the  truth.  I am  in  your  power,  but  if  I were  free,  I 
would  not  injure  you,  and  I could  benefit  you  a 
o-reat  deal  better  than  my  father  can.  Help  to 
save  me  now,  and  I will  forgive  your  past  treat- 
ment of  me.”  She  looked  with  her  appealing  eyes 
fixed  on  Maillard’s  face.  , , , . 

' The  maid  returned  her  mistress  s look  for  a mo- 
ment. At  the  remembrance  of  her  girlhood  a tear 
dimmed  her  eye,  but  it  was  quickly  brushed  away 
as  a much  later  remembrance  came  to  her  mind. 

She  replied  : J , . , T , a • 

(C  I am  not  so  hard  as  you  think,  Lady  beringa. 
You  have  been  a good  mistress  to  me,  and  I would 
serve  you  to  the  utmost  of  my  ability.  But  although 
(as  you  say)  you  could  reward  me  if  you  were  free, 
there  is  a'  thing  which  he  can  do  over  which  you 
have  no  control.  I hate  him ! ” she  exclaimed, 
with  sudden  passion.  “ I have  more  need  to  do  so 
than  you  have.  He  can  only  hurt  you  for  a time ; 
me  he  can  injure  forever.  Nay,  my  very  life  is  in 
his  hands.  So  you  see,  for  my  self-defense,  I must 
obey  his  orders  where  you  are  concerned.” 

She  stood  back  and  looked  at  the  "Duchess’s 
blanched  cheeks,  for  Seringa  was  astonished  out  of 
her  usual  self-possession. 

“ Poor  woman,”  she  sobbed,  believing  implicitly 
every  word  Maillard  had  said,  although  it  was 
doubtful  if  she  had  spoken  the  unvarnished  truth. 
“ I pity  you,  and  will  try  to  think  leniently  of  your 
actions.”  With  these  words  she  dismissed  her. 

On  the  following  morning  Maillard  told  the 
Duchess  it.  was  necessary  for  her  to  go  to  the 
nearest  village  to  make  some  purchases.  In  a 
deprecatory  way  she  said,  as  she  was  leaving  : 

“ You  know  my  lord’s  orders;  you  are  free  to 
walk  in  the  garden.  I do  not  suppose  you  can 
escape  through  these  mountains  with  only  a stupid 
girl  and  helpless  old  woman,  and  no  vehicle ; so  I 
think  I may  leave  you  safely.” 

“ You  are  right,  Maillard.  I have  not  the 
opportunity,  if  I have  the  will,  to  escape.” 


102 


A 


“ NOVEL  ” NOVEL. 


About  an  hour  later,  Seringa  (oblivious  of  the 
garden)  sat  thinking  of  her  lonely  position.  Thai 
she,  the  daughter  of  an  earl,  allied  to  one  of  tin 
noblest  of  England's  old  families,  should  be  a pris- 
oner, and  her  maid  her  jailor— she  sighed  deeply  as 
she  thought  on  her  sad  fate,  which  should  have 
been  so  fair.  The  door  opened  softly,  and  Gretchen 
came  in. 

“ Oh,  my  dear  lady,  how  sad  you  look.  Pardon 
my  intrusion.  I came  to  cheer  you  a little.  You 
must  not  despair;  help  may  be  nearer  than  you 
think.  My  mother  has  bid  me  ask  if  she  may  pay 
her  respects  to  you,  she  does  so  sympathize  with 
you.” 

Seringa,  always  kindness  itself,  gave  permission. 
Gretchen  went  away  and  presently  returned,  lead- 
ing in  her  infirm  old  mother,  whose  wrinkled  face 
and  slow  movements  showed  her  weakness.  Seringa; 
rose  to  assist  the  worthy  dame  to  a seat,  when  a 
soft  voice  fell  in  liquid  accents  on  her  ear;  she 
started  back  when  the  old  lady  said  : t 

‘‘l  have  found  you  then  at  last,  my  darling. 
Why,  oh  why,  did  you  not  confide  in  me  ? ” 

’ Unutterably  amazed,  Seringa  stared  at  her, 
then  at  Gretchen’s  smiling  face. 

“ Is  it  possible  ? Who  are  you  ? ” 

“See!”  and  her  visitor, “to  the  delight  of 
Gretchen,  removed  her  glasses  and  wig  of  gray 
hair  with  the  cap,  and  Seringa  saw,  through  her! 
cleverly  painted  face,  it  was  indeed  her  dear  friend 
Gecilia.  She  threw  herself,  overcome  with  joy,  into 
the  arms  of  Lady  Allonby ; they  forgot  everything 
but  their  delight  at  being  once  more  together. 

Gretchen  it  was  who  recalled  them  to  the  pres- 
ent and  danger. 

“ Pray  restore  the  wig  and  cap,  for  fear  of  a 
surprise.  I will  leave  my  mother  with  you,  dear 
lady,  for  a time,”  as  with  a smiling  face  she  left 
them. 

Ha  \ ing  somewhat  recovered  from  her  surprise,'?! 
Seringa  inspected  her  friend.  “ It  is  wonderful ! I 


A “NOVEL”  NOVEL.  103 

do  not  believe  even  the  Earl  himself  would  know 

^ But  Lady  Allonby  had  much  to  hear  and  to  say. 
She  reminded  the  Duchess  that  they  had  no  time  to 

lose.  _ , . , 

“Listen  attentively,  whilo  I explain  my  plan 
before  that  wretched  woman  returns.” 

They  were  for  an  hour  so  deeply  engaged  that 
they  did  not  hear  carriage  wheels,  and  were  startled 
at  the  sound  of  hurried  steps.  Gretchen  came  in, 
saying  in  a loud,  pointed  voice,  “ The  Earl,  my 
lady,”  and  then,  “ Come,  mother,  I’m  sure  you  must 
have  tired  my  lady,”  and  turning  to  the  Earl,  who 
had  followed  her : 

“ This  is  mother,  whom  you  were  so  good  as  to 
allow  me  to  have  here;  she  has  been  trying  to 
interest  my  lady  in  our  troubles.” 

She  led  the  feeble  old  woman  from  the  room, 
Lord  de  Yere  looking  first  at  his  daughter’s  white 
face,  and  then  impatiently  at  the  old  frau’s  slow 
progress  out  of  the  room. 

CHAPTER  XY. 

By  Miss  Minnie  Laud. 

No  sooner  had  the  door  closed  on  Gretchen  and 
her  “ mother  ” than  Lord  de  Yere  turned,  and  look- 
ing closely  at  his  daughter,  noted  her  pallor  and 
agitation.  . 

“ Fool  that  I am ! ” he  muttered  to  himself-. 
“ Maillard  was  right  after  all ; there  is  some  mys- 
tery about  this  Old  hag  Gretchen  calls  ‘ mother.’  ” 
Seringa,  eager  to  again  see  her  sister-in-law, 
was  gliding  from  the  room,  when  Lord  de  Yere,  in 
a savage  tone,  ordered  her  to  remain  where  she  was 
till  dinner-time ; then,  flinging  himself  into  a chair, 
soon  became  lost  in  deep  meditation.  Once  only 
did  the  frightened  woman  break  the  terrible  si- 
lence. 

“ Father,  dear,  will  you  let  me  go  to  my  own 
room  ? I will  not  leave  it  unless  you  wish.  ” 


104  A “NOVEL  ” NOVEL. 

“Have  I not  already  told  you  my  wishes ?” 
was  the  angry  reply.  “ ‘ Father,  dear  ! ’ hah  ! 
Much  filial  love  occupies  your  heart,  my  daughter, 
else  would  you  think  no  sacrifice  too  great  to 
guard  your  father’s  life  from  the  vengeance  of  a 
villain.” 

“Father,  you  forget  the  nature  of  the  sacrifice  | 
- — separation  from  my  own  loved  husband.  Ah  ! 
why  not  trust  him  ? He  is  noble  and  good,  aiid 
would  protect  you — his  wife’s  father — from  the  j 
hand  of  the  man  that,  as  you  say,  seeks  your  life,  ] 
even  though  that  man  be  his  honored  friend.” 

“You  talk  like  a baby,  Seringa.  ‘ Wife’s  | 
father  ! ’ As  if  any  man  cared  one  jot  what  be- 
came of  his  wife’s  father,  as  long  as  he  got  the  ; 
biggest  share  of  the  father’s  flesh-pots.  See,  here  1 
comes  Maillard ; now  go  with  her  and  dress  for  | 
dinner.  To-day  it  is  to  be  served  early,  at  five 
o’clock.” 

“ My  lord,”  said  Maillard,  “ the  cook  and  house- 
maid say  you  have  given  them  leave  to  go  to 
Brocken  Fair.  Is  it  wise,  think  you,  for  there  will 
be  only  Gretchen,  the  old  woman  and  myself  in  the 
house  ? ” 

“What!  is  the  brave  Maillard  showing  the 
white  feather?  Too  soon,  my  girl,  too  soon.”  And 
the  Earl,  with  a derisive  laugh,  motioned  the  two 
women  away. 

“Maillard,  what  has  come  over  my  father?”  • 
cried  Seringa,  as  they  went  to  the  chamber.  “I 
cannot  understand  him.  He  has  grown  so  heart- 
less and  so  reckless  that  I— may  God  forgive  me — 

I,  his  child,  am  beginning  to  hate  him.” 

“ Well,  my  lady,  you  had  better  destroy  such 
feelings  at  once.  Let  me  warn  you — hatred  shown 
towards  Lord  de  Vere  bodes  ill  for  all  of  us.  There 
goes  the  dinner-bell;  come,  take  my  arm  to  the 
dining-room.” 

On  entering  they  found  the  Earl  already  seated 
at  the  table ; the  dinner  was  a marvel  in  speed,  ; 
neither  father  nor  daughter  showing  any  inclina-  & 


A 


NOVEL 


NOVEL. 


105 


( ( 


?? 


tion  to  eat.  Seringa  gulped  down  a large  glass  of 
claret  standing  by  her  plate,  and  then  she  noticed 
that  Lord  de  Yere  seemed  bent  on  draining  all  the 
wine-bottles  at  hand ; his  thirst  appeared  insa- 
tiable. 

Presently  Maiilard  took  Seringa  by  the  arm  and 
said,  “ My  lady,  had  you  not  better  come  to  your 
room  ? You  look  white  and  ill.” 

“ Not  ill,  Maiilard.  Only  tired,  so  very  tired. 
Ask  Gretchen  to  come  to  me.” 

“ Do  nothing  of  the  kind,”  interposed  the  Earl; 
“and,  Maiilard,  the  instant  your  mistress  is  in  bed, 
return  to  this  room.” 

“ Yes,  my  lord,”  was  the  woman’s  reply,  as  she 
carried  the  now  unconscious  form  of  Seringa  from 
the  room. 

“ What  does  this  mean,  I wonder?  ” she  mut- 
tered, as  she  quickly  prepared  her  mistress  for  bed. 
“ There  is  some  devil’s  work  to  be  done,  or  he 
wouldn’t  have  drugged  her;  but  I’ll  tell  him 
straight  that  he  must  not  expect  Joan  Maiilard  to 
make  her  soul  as  black  as  his  own.” 

Having  secured  the  windows,  and  lowered  the 
lights,  Maiilard  left  the  chamber,  and  went  to  the 
kitchen  to  tell  Gretchen  the  Duchess  must  not  be 
disturbed.  She  pushed  open  the  door,  and  then, 
with  a wild  scream,  fled  towards  the  dining-room. 
Alarmed  by  the  noise,  the  Earl  met  her  at  the 
door. 

“ What  have  you  done  ? ” what  have  you  done  ? ” 
shrieked  the  terrified  woman.  “ Gretchen  and  her 
mother  are  lying  dead  on  the  floor.” 

“Don’t  be  a fool,  Maiilard;  they  are  no  more 
dead  than-  Seringa  ; their  dinner  wine  had  a draught 
in  it  that  will  keep  them  sleeping  till  morning.  By 
and  by  you  will  have  to  put  the  two  creatures  to 
bed,  and  then,  to-morrow,  you  must  ridicule  them 
into  believing  that  this  night’s  work  was  a dream, 
and  that  they  went  to  their  rest  like  rational  crea- 
tures, at  the  usual  time.  Lock  the  door,  and  sit 
down  and  listen  to  me.” 


106  A “novel”  novel. 

Silently,  the  woman  obeyed,  when  the  Earl 

seemed  to  throw  off  all  reserve,  and  turned  to  Mail- 1 
lard , saying-,  in  a loud  and  excited  tone  : 

“ Hark  you,  girl ; I’m  about  to  play  a last  and 
most  desperate  card,  for  the  blood-hounds  have  got  ! 
me  into  a corner,  from  which  I cannot  escape ; and  j 
you,  Joan  Maillard,  must  stand  by  me  and  not  | 
flinch.  You  know  the  old  story,  of  how  Lord  de  \ 
Vere,  in  his  native  village,  had  a double  in  the  per- 
son of  Frank  Moray,  the  farmer’s  son : so  alike 
were  they,  that  once  when,  in  boyish  fun,  they  j 

dressed  as  plowboys,  and  asked  Mrs.  Moray  to  ] 

identify  her  own  child,  she  could  only  do  so  after  * 
finding  Lord  de  Yere’s  birth-mark,  a tiny  blood-red 
heart  on  the  nape  of  his  neck.  The  peer  and  the  j 
farmer’s  son  were  both  educated  by  the  self-same  ] 
tutor,  and  when  they  grew  to  manhood,  both  to-  1 
gether  went  on  a visit  to  Australia,  their  young  | 
wives,  soon  to  become  mothers,  remaining  at  | 
home.” 

At  this  point  the  Earl  ceased  his  narrative  to 
say : j 

“ Here,  Maillard,  drink  this  wine,  and  don’t  look  1 
like  a petrified  ghost.”  Then  he  continued  : “ You 
also  remember  that  Frank  Maillard,  in  a drunken 
fit,  when  Lord  de  Yere  was  standing  by,  murdered 
a squatter,  and  then  went  mad.  On  Lord  de  Yere’s 
return  to  England,  he  told  your  mother  the  awful 
news  which  killed  her— that  her  handsome  hus- 
band, Frank  Moray,  would  drag  out  the  remainder  : 
of  his  life  as  a criminal  lunatic  in  Australia.” 

“ Too  well,  too  well  I remember  all  this  Lord 
de  Yere,”  broke  in  Maillard.  “ Is  not  the  knowl-| 
edge  that  you  hold  a sword  over  my  poor  husband’s 
head  torture  enough  ? Then  why  should  you  add  \ 
to  my  misery  by  raking  up  the  ghost  of  my  dead  ■ 
father’s  crime  ? ” 

“ He  is  not  dead,  Joan  Maillard ; he’s  here  be-  : 
fore  you.  Be  easty,  I am  not  mad.  Look  at  my  .1 
neck,  do  you  see  the  red  heart,  girl  ? No,  for  ’twas 
never  there;  can’t  you  understand  ? I,  girl,  lam 


A “ NOVEL  ” NOVEL.  10 

Frank  Moray,  the  murderer;  Lord  de  Yere  is  th» 
lunatic  prisoner  in  Australia ; and  you,  Joan  Mail 
lard,  are  my  own  flesh  and  blood.  Seringa,  Duch 
ess  of  Mowbra3r,  is  naught  to  me.” 

“Father,  my  father  ! ” cried  Maillard,  pressing 
her  hands  to  her  head.  “Oh,  ’tis  hard  to  believe 
but  if  you  are  my  father,  why  not  fly  to  some  dis 
tant  land  at  once,  and  leave  the  Duchess  free  to  d< 
as  she  pleases?  Yet  stay,  no  one  knows  you] 
secret  save  myself;  I will  guard  it  well.  Only  lei 
the  Duchess  return  to- her  husband,  and  all  will  bt 
at  peace  once  more.” 

“ Listen,  Maillard  ! ” and  her  arm  was  grasped 
as  in  a vice;  “if  Seringa  goes  to  Mowbra}7,  Fro 
undone.  That  man,  I swear,  suspects  something: 
moreover,  there  was  a rumor  that  he  expected  au 
Australian  friend,  who  was  bent  on  fathoming  some 
great  mystery.  I’ve  seen  this  friend,  and  his  con- 
versation savors  too  much  of  convicts  and  lunatics 
to  please  me  ; and  when  he  heard  I was  Lord  de 
Yere,  for  an  instant  the  fellow  lost  his  tongue,  and 
then  added  : 

“ ‘ A dear  friend  of  mine  bears  a similar  name — 
Mr.  de  Vere;  he  will  soon  be  in  England,  when  1 
hope  to  introdue  him  to  you.’ 

“Joan  Maillard,  this  expected  De  Yere  is, 
doubtless,  the  Earl ; the  sight  of  the  murder  un- 4 
hinged  his  reason,  but  only  for  a while.  Fifteen 
years  after  his  condemnation  I received  information 
that  the  prisoner  was  very  popular,  and  much  be- 
loved; and,  also,  that  he  had  become  a rational 
man,  save  for  his  delusion  in  calling  himself  Lord  de 
Yere.  In  all  probability  he  has  convinced  those 
about  him  that  his  so-called  delusion  is  a reality, 
and  so  he  is  coming  to  England  to  regain  his  own. 
Let  him  strike  at  me  if  he  will,  but  it  shall  be 
through  his  daughter  Seringa.  The  restoration  of 
Seringa  shall  be  my  passport  to  freedom  and  riches, 
else  shall  she  be  dead  to  him,  and  to  her  proud  hus- 
band. Girl,”  said  Moray  in  a low  tone,  “ from  one 
of  the  walls  in  Seringa’s  chamber  is  an  entrance  in- 


10.8  A “ NOVEL  ” NOVEL. 

to  a secret  room  unknown  even  to  the  owner  of  this  'I 
house.  It  is  comfortably  furnished,  and  into  it  the 
Duchess  shall  be  carried  to-night,  and  you.  Mail- 
lard,  are  to  wait  upon  her.  Come,  ’tis  already  nine 
o’clock  ; in  three  hours  the  servants  return,  and  in 
the  meantime  there  is  much  to  do.” 

“Father,”  pleaded  Maillard,  “give  up  this 
scheme.  You  yourself  escape;  for,  should  Earl 
Mowbray  and  Lord  de  Yere  discover  this  cham- 
ber   ” 

“Have  I not  said,”  angrily  broke  in  Moray,  - 
“ that  the  owner  of  the  house  is  ignorant  of  its 
existence  ? Then  how  should  anyone  else  find  it  : 
out  ? ” - 

Had  Frank  Moray  but  scanned  the  chronicles  ■ 
of  the  De  Vere  family,  he  would  have  been  amazed 
to  read  that  this  very  house— the  White  House,  ‘ 
Brocken,  near  Dresden  — had  actually  once  been 
owned  by  a Lord  de  Vere. 

Seringa  and  all  needful  things  were  quickly 
transferred  into  the  secret  chamber,  and,  in  justice 
to  Maillard,  it  must  be  said  that  she  truly  pitied  3 
her  helpless  young  mistress.  Then  Gretchen  and  < 
the  “old  woman”  were  carried  to  their  rooms,  | 
and  Maillard  had  scarcely  got  them  into  bed  when 
the  servants  returned  from  the  fair. 

The  night  passed,  swiftly  enough  to  some,  but  1 
to  Maillard  and  her  father  each  hour  was  in  itself 
a whole  night. 

“ Awake,  awake,  madam  ! ” were  the  words  that  jj 
roused  Mrs.  Allonby  from  her  long  slumber.  Look-  1 
ing  up,  she  saw  Gretchen  wringing  her  hands  and  | 
crying : 

“Alas,  alas  ! the  Duchess  is  not  in  her  room, 
nor  in  the  house  ! Maillard  vows  she  was  safe  in 
bed  when  she  herself  went  to  rest.  I have  been  to 
Lord  de  Yere,  but  he  seems  quite  indifferent,  f 
Madam,  what  are  we  to  do  ? ” 

Already  Mrs.  Allonby  was  hastily  dressing. 

“ I shall  go  back  to  the  hotel  at  once ; Lord  de  - 
Yere  is  at  the  bottom  of  this  new  piece  of  treachery. 


A “ novel”  novel.  109 

Think,  Gretchen,  we  did  not  go  to  bed  last  night  ; 
after  dinner,  don*t  you  remember  how  sleepy  we 
both  felt  ? We  never  went  to  bed  ourselves;  that 
villain  drugged  us,  and  then  he  and  his  accomplice, 
Maillard,  again  carried  off  our  darling.  Something 
must  be  done  quickly  by  my  husband  and  Earl 
Mowbray.  Tell  the  servants  your  mother  has  gone 
home;  they  won’t  trouble  their  heads  about  me. 
Good-bye,  Gretchen ; watch  Maillard  and  Lord  de 
Yere  with  all  your  power,  and  pray  for  Seringa’s 
safety,  and  that  her  guardian  angel  may  direct  us 
in  our  search.” 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

By  Miss  Hilda  Somers . 

Lady  Allonby  procured  a conveyance  at  the 
nearest  village,  and  with  as  little  delay  as  possible 
arrived  at  the  hotel.  On  alighting  she  asked  for 
her  maid,  who  at  once  recognized  her  mistress,  and, 
leading  the  way  to  Lady  Allonby’s  rooms,  quickly 
divested  her  of  the  disguise  she  had  assumed  while 
playing  the  role  of  Gretchen’s  mother.  She  learnt 
to  her  horror  and  dismay  that  the  Duke  had  left 
suddenly  that  same  morning,  accompanied  b\^  Lord 
Allonby  and  the  detective,  who  had  called  early, 
and  had  held  a lengthy  interview  with  the  Duke  ; 
they  left  no  word  as  to  when  they  intended  to 
return. 

“True,”  said  Lady  Allonby,  “ he  did  not  expect 
me  so  soon  ; but  I wish  to  see  him  with  as  little 
delay  as  possible,  so  let  me  know  the  moment  they 
are  back.” 

Lady  Allonby  mastered  her  anxiety  and  impa- 
tience as  best  she  could,  making  no  remarks  and 
asking  no  questions  that  might  throw  light  on  the 
last  unexpected  disappearance  of  Seringa.  In  deal- 
ing with  a man  of  Lord  de  Vere’s  character  more 
than  ordinary  precaution  was  to  be  observed.  She 
told  the  maid  to  pack  a small  bag  in  readiness  for 
any  moment  it  might  be  wanted.  She  then  set  her- 


110 


A “novel”  novel. 


self  to  the  task  of  answering  letters  and  making 
every  arrangement  for  an  absence  of  some  weeks. 
She  felt  sure  her  husband  and  brother  would  be 
home  at  latest  in  time  for  dinner. 

About  four  o’clock  she  was  roused  from  her  work 
by  the  welcome  sound  of  a carriage  drawing  up  be- 
fore the  door.  Almost  before  she  had  time  to  get 
out  of  the  room  she  was  confronted  by  her  brother 
and  Lord  AUonby.  They  started  in  undisguised 
astonishment  when  they  saw  Lady  Allonby. 

“ Oh,  Mowbray  ! ” she  cried,  “ they  have  car- 
ried poor  Seringa  off  again ; but  the  most  extraor- 
dinary thing  is  that  Lord  de  Yere  and  the  woman 
Maillard  are  still  there,  and  they  declare  they  know 
nothing  whatever  about  the  matter,  and,  moreover, 
they  appear  quite  unconcerned.  Gretchen  and  I 
were  drugged  last  night,  and  the  other  two  ser- 
vants were  out,  so  there  was  the  whole  evening  to 
carry  out  any  new  plans*.” 

“ Some  new  piece  of  devilment  on  the  part  of 
Lord  de  Vere,  as  he  calls  himself,”  muttered  the 
Duke.  “ Allow  me  to  present  Mr.  de  Y ere  to  you. 
My  sister.  Lady  Allonby.” 

Lady  Allonby  started.  For  the  first  time  she 
became  aware  of  the  fact  that  her  brother  had  been 
followed  into  the  room  by  the  detective  Bolton  and 
a tall,  dark  man,  with  a sunburnt,  anxious-looking 
face.  He  had  been  listening  eagerly  to  every  word 
of  the  conversation. 

The  Duke  turned  to  his  sister,  saying  : 

“Mr.  de  Vere  is  anxious  to  pay  a visit  to  the 
White  House  with  as  little  delay  as  possible.  He 
thinks  that  he  may  be  able  to  give  us  some  start- 
ling information  about  the  man  at  present  calling 
himself  Lord  de  Yere.  We  shall  then  have  some 
light  thrown  on  the  subject  of  the  barbarous  treat- 
ment to  which  my  poor  wife  has  been  subjected  at 
the  hands  of  a ruffian.” 

“ I am  afraid  much  precious  time  has  been  lost 
already,”  said  Mr.  de  Vere;  “and  if  the  poor 
Duchess  is  to  be  rescued,  we  must  start  at  once.” 


A “novel”  novel.  Ill 

“Gretchen  has  promised  to  do  what  she  can,” 
said  Lady  Allonby ; “ she  will  watch  every  move- 
ment, and  she  means  to  avoid  taking  any  food  pre- 
pared otherwise  than  by  her  own  hands.  She  will 
then  be  on  the  alert  should  there  be  any  fresh 
move.” 

“ A very  good  idea  on  Gretchen’s  part,  my  dear 
sister,”  said  Mowbray;  “but  even  you,  with  tfll 
your  knowledge  of  Lord  de  Ye  re’s  iniquities,  have 
not  yet  touched  on  the  outer  edge  of  his  crimes. 
Let  us  have  some  refreshment  while  fresh  horses 
are  being  prepared  to  take  us  .to  the  White  House, 
and,  on  the  way,  I feel  sure  that  our  new  friend  will 
kindly  tell  you  the  history  of  his  life.  You  will  ac- 
company us,  for  a woman’s  ready  wit  may  stand  us 
much  in  need.  I am  determined  now  to  follow  up 
this  man  till  my  wife  is  found.” 

“ I am  glad  to  see  you  take  that  active  view  of 
the  matter,  Mowbray,”  said  Lady  Allonby.  “You 
know  I always  urged  you  on,  when  you  appeared 
so  hopeless  and  despondent.” 

“ I was  not  then  in  possession  of  the  facts  which 
I have  learnt  this  morning,  and  which  lead  me  to 
suppose  that  Lord  de  Yere’s  career  is  fast  drawing 
to  a close.” 

“And  I,”  said  Mr.  de  Yere,  “am  equally  anx- 
ious on  my  side  to  trace  this  impostor.  The  hour 
that  restores  the  Duke  his  wife,  will  unite  me  with 
my'  long-lost  child.” 

“ Your  child  ? ” 

“Yes,  Lady  Allonby,  Seringa  is  my  daughter. 
I am  the  real  Lord  de  vere.  Yes,  mine  is  the  story 
of  a ’\ery  sad  life,  yet  another  illustration  of  the 
fearful  way  in  which  justice  may  miscarry,  in  which 
appearances  are  strong  against  the  victim,  and  es- 
cape next  to  impossible.  Soon  after  my  marriage 
I went  to  Australia  with  an  old  playmate  of  my 
youth,  Frank  Moray,  the  son  of  one  of  the  ten- 
ants. The  resemblance  between  us  wTas  so  .remark- 
able that  had  it  been  necessary  to  prove  our  iden- 
tity, it  would  have  been  well-nigh  impossible,  only 


112 


A “ NOVEL  ” NOVEL. 


for  a small  red  birthmark,  by  which  I may  always 
be  known  by  any  member  of  my  family  aware  of  the 
fact. 

“Frank  Moray  and  I had  been  traveling-  for 
some  months  when  I was  struck  down  with  jungle 
fever,  which  weakened  me  considerably.  "When  I 
had  sufficiently  recovered  we  continued  our  journey 

toward  A , a town  some  eighty  miles  distant. 

At  one  of  the  stations,  Moray,  who  had  consider- 
ably changed  in  character,  and  for  the  worse,  picked 
a quarrel  with  one  of  the 'squatters,  and  stabbed 
the  unfortunate  man.  On  the  neighbors  gathering 
round,  he  coolly  denounced  me  as  the  murderer. 
The  sight  of  the  dead  man  covered  in  blood,  and 
the  weakness  caused  by  my  recent  illness,  so  com- 
pletely unnerved  me,  that  I was  powerless  to  speak, 
when  the  words  which  condemned  me  as  an  assassin 
fell  from  the  lips  of  my  betrayer.  I certainly  must 
have  presented  far  more  the  appearance  of  a culprit 
than  my  perjured  companion.  He  coolly  passed  me 
over  to  justice  as  his  half-lunatic  attendant,  whose 
lunacy  took  the  form  of  believing  himself  to  be  Lord 
de  Yere.  Suffice  to  say,  that  after  fifteen  years’ 
confinement  in  an  asylum  I was  discharged,  to  begin 
life  over  again.  My  first  care  was  to  get  some 
money  together,  the  next  to  trace  the  fate  of  my 
child.  On  my  return  to  Europe  I learnt  from  the 
detectives  whom  I had  set  to  work  most  of  the  de- 
tails relating  to  Lord  de  Vere’s  conduct  with  regard 
to  his  supposed  daughter.  I obtained  Bolton’s  ad- 
dress, and  followed  him  out  here  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible, and  provided  him  with  the  missing  link  to  his 
strange  undertaking.  I have  told  no  one  my  name, 
as  I was  too  much  afraid  of  Moray  perpetrating 
some  still  deeper  villainy,  of  which  my  helpless  child 
might  be  the  victim.  I met  only  a few  nights  back 
a man  whom  I think  might  be  Moray  ; he  seemed 
much  interested  in  Australian  news  on  hearing  that 
I had  just  come  from  that  part  of  the  world.  After 
his  departure  no  one  seemed  to  know  who  he  was. 
If  Moray  had  the  least  idea  that  I was  alive,  and  in 


A “ novel”  novel. 


113 


this  part  of  the  world  again,  he  would  be  well  aware 
that  his  game  was  played  out.  The  safety  of  my 
daughter  is  the  only  bar  to  my  declaring  myself, 
and  assuming  my  right  position  in  society  at  once.” 

The  remainder  of  the  drive  was  accomplished  in 
silence,  and  it  was  quite  dark  when  they  drew  up 
in  front  of  the  White  House,  Not  a glimmer  of 
light  was  to  be  seen  in  any  window,  not  a sound 
was  heard.  After  a short  conference  together, 
they  decided  to  ring.  No  one  responded,  and  Bol- 
ton, placing  his  hand  on  the  door,  found  to  his  sur- 
prise that  it  yielded  to  the  pressure;  pushing  it 
open,  they  entered  the  hall. 

“I  wonder  if  they  are  off  again  ? ” said  Bolton, 
striking  a match,  and  looking  round  as  he  lighted 
a candle  on  the  table  close  by. 

“We  must  go  through  the  house  first,”  said  the 
Duke,  lighting  another  candle,  and  carrying  it  into 
a room  close  to  the  hall  door.  It  was  a comfort- 
able, though  somewhat  bare-looking  apartment, 
paneled  with  carved  oak,  and  evidently  served  as 
a library.  The  remains  of  a fire  burned  on  the 
hearth. 

“Look,”  said  Lady  Allonby,  “it  can’t  be  so 
very  long  since  some  one  was  here  ; the  fire  is  still 
burning  brightly;  I will  remain  here  while  you 
search  the  place.” 

From  bottom  to  top  they  examined  every  cor- 
ner and  cupboard,  Mr.  de  Yere  remaining  in  the 
hall  on  guard  to  prevent  surprise.  Not  a soul  was 
to  be  found  ; the  place  was  evidently  tenantless. 
They  assembled  together  once  more,  and  joined 
Lady  Allonby  in  the  library ; there  they  conferred 
for  a few  moments  on  the  next  steps  to  be  taken. 
They  at  last  decided  on  dividing  their  party,  and 
following  the  only  two  roads  leading  from  the  for- 
est, Mr.  de  Yere  offering  to  remain  in  the  neighbor- 
hood and  closely  watch  the  house. 

They  were  already  getting  into  the  carriage, 
■when  Lady  Allonby  discovered  that  she  had  left 
her  cloak  behind  in  the  library,  and  begged  that 


114 


A “ NOVEL  ” NOVEL. 

"Some  one  would  be  kind  enough  to  fetch  it  for  her. 
Bolton,  who  was  just  about  to  extinguish  the  light 
on  the  hall  table,  hastily  took  up  the  candlestick, 
opened  the  door,  ana  was  in  the  library  before  any- 
one else  could  volunteer  to  fetch  the  missing  wrap. 
Looking  round  the  room,  to  his  intense  surprise,  he 
saw  Maillard  standing  near  the  window.  Had  she 
been  hidden  in  the  room  all  the  time  ? That  was 
almost  impossible,  as  there  were  no  draperies.  She 
Could  not  have  entered  from  the  hall,  as  Mr.  de 
Vere  had  never  left  it.  Turning  round  he  con- 
fronted the  woman,  who  was  trembling  visibly. 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

By  the  Countess  of  Munster. 

“Woman!”  he  exclaimed,  hurrying  towards 
her,  and  seizing  her  by  the  arm,  “ how,  and  from 
whence,  came  you  here  ? I insist  upon  an  answer ! 

The  woman,  however,  was  silent  and  rigid,  ap- 
parently from  extreme  terror. 

Again  the  detective  spoke,  this  time  threaten- 
ingly : 

“See  here,  girl ! I am  convinced  you  are  in  the 
secret  which  keeps  the  unhappy  Duchess  from  her 
husband — and  her  home.  “ Now  ! now  ! ” seeing 
she  was  preparing  for  a struggle  to  free  herself 
from  nis  grasp,  “don’t  be  silly  ! I have  you  fast, 
you  can’t  get  away;  but — if  you  try — here,  give 
me  your  hand,  and  put  it  in  my  pocket.  Ah  ! you 
shrink!  You  dislike  the  feeling  of  cold  iron;  and 
you’ll  like  it  less  when  I tell  you  those  are  hand- 
cuffs, and,  as  there  is  a God  above  me,  if  you  refuse 
to  aid  justice  when  I call  upon  you  in  the  Queen’s 
name  to  do  so,  those  same  handcuffs  shall  clasp 
your  wrists  ! I have  help  at  hand,  too,  outside ; I 
have  but  to  call.  So  come,  be  sensible,  for  I really 
won’t  hurt  you,  if  you  will  only  tell  me  about  the 
Duchess.” 

“ Take  your  hands  off  me,  man  ! ” answered  the 
woman,  savagely.  “ How  dare  you  attack  me  ! 


A “ NOVEL  ” NOVEL. 


115 


How  do  you  know  whether  I have  a secret  ? I know 
nothing* ! Who  are  you , that  you  dare  to  threaten 
me ! ” 

“ I am  a police  officer — ah  ! you  start !— a de- 
tective, and  I have  been  one  for  years ; and,  there- 
fore, you  may  suppose,  I know  guilt  pretty  well, 
when  it  comes  before  me  ! Why,  I see  it  looking 
out  at  your  eyes ; I see  it  in  your  trembling  limbs, 
in  your  terror  ! Come,  be  a good  girl,  and  tell  me 
all  you  know,  without  useless  delay.  Save  the 
Duchess,  who  has  never  injured  you,  and  you  shall 
be  amply  rewarded/’ 

“ My  God,  my  God  l 99  groaned  Maiilard,  “what 
shall  I say  ? I dare  not  tell ! What  shall  I do  ? 
My  father,  my  poor  father ! ” 

Maiilard  muttered  these  words  almost  to  her- 
self, and  apparently  involuntarity.  But  Bolton 
caught  them,  and  was  much  relieved ; for  hitherto, 
in  accusing  the  maid,  he  had  been  daringly  acting 
upon  his  own  barely-formed  suspicions,  thus  risking 
the  danger  of  following  what,  after  all,  might  be  a 
false  scent.  Maiilard ’s  words,  however,  “I  dare 

not  tell,”  convinced  him  that  she  knew  much,  if  not 
everything.  “ But,”  he  said  to  himself,  “ who  is 
her  father?  I never  heard  of  him  ! Is  he  implicated, 
I wonder?  ” 

“ Let  me  see  your  father,”  Bolton  said  aloud  to 
the  now  weeping  girl,  hoping  that  by  following  her 
train  of  thought  he  might  obtain  some  new  light 
upon  the  subject.  “ Take  me  to  him,  and,  believe 
me,  neither  he  nor  you  shall  be  unrewarded  for 
helping  me.  “ But,”  he  added  sternly,  “ unless 
you  and  he  confess  what  you  know,  it  wTill  be  the 
worse  for  you  ! ” 

Maiilard  stood  as  though  irresolute  for  a mo- 
ment; then,  looking  suddenly  and  confidingly  up 
into  the  detective’s  face,  she  seemed  to  come  to  a 
resolve. 

“Come,  then,”  she  whispered  agitatedly;  “I 
will  tell  you  all  I know  ; nay,  more,  I will  take  you 
to  the  Duchess  herself  ! She  may  be  in  bed  by  this 


116 


A “novel”  novel. 


time,  poor  lady ; but  she  will  welcome  even  a de- 
tective, at  any  hour,  so  he  give  her  some  tidings  of 
her  husband  ! ” 

“ Now  that’s  as  it  should  be,”  said  Bolton,  ap- 
provingly. “ So  take  me  to  her  at  once.  You  go 
first,  I will  follow.” 

“ Oh,  hush  ! hush  ! ” returned  Maillard,  anxi- 
ously. “ For  heaven’s  sake,  speak  low,  for  my 
father — I mean  Lord  de  Yere— what  am  I saying  ? 
You  have  confused  me  so ; he — they  will  kill  me, 
should  they  think  I was  betraying  them.” 

In  a moment  Bolton’s  well-greased  comprehen- 
sion took  in  somehow  that  the  girl  had  made  a slip 
of  the  tongue  in  mentioning  her  father ; but  he  said 
nothing,  and  only  watched  her  proceedings  all  the 
. more  narrowly. 

“ Come  ! ” she  whispered , beckoning  to  him  with 
a hand  which  he  saw  trembled.  She  approached 
one  of  the  bookcases  with  which  the  room  was  fur- 
nished, and,  as  she  touched  a particular  spot  behind 
it,  a panel  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  wall  slid  noise- 
lessly back,  disclosing  a door,  through  which  she 
glided,  motioning  to  him  to  follow.  They  passed 
quickly  through  a large  sitting-room  into  a corri- 
dor, and  at  a doorway  Maillard  stopped. 

“ Her  room,”  she  whispered ; “ but  no  doubt 
she  sleeps.  So  hush  ! ” 

She  took  a key  from  her  bosom,  and  unlocked 
the  door. 

“ She  is  kept  under  lock  and  key,  poor  thing,” 
Bolton  thought,  compassionately,  as  he  followed 
the  maid  into  the  apartment. 

It  was  pitch  dark,  and,  instinctively,  the  detec- 
tive instantly  suspected  a possible — nay,  a probable 
trap ; so,  quickly  grasping  Maillard  by  the  arm,  clos- 
ing the  door,  and  setting  his  stalwart  back  against 
it,  he  whispered  fiercely,  “ Now  then,  young  woman, 
what’s  this  ? What’s  your  game  ? ” 

“ This  is  the  Duchess’s  bedroom,”  answered  the 
woman  in  a voice  of  surprise,  as  she  vainly  endeav- 
ored to  free  herself. 


A “ novel”  novel. 


117 


“ Wait  a bit,  my  lady,”  snarled  the  angry  de- 
tective,, still  retaining  his  firm  hold  upon  his  guide 
with  one  hand,  while  with  the  other  he  struck  a 
light  from  a box  he  carried,  and,  hastily  looking 
around  him,  lit  a candle  which  luckily  was  close  at 
hand. 

“ Why  do  you  hold  me  so  tightly,  you  villain  ! ” 
expostulated  the  woman,  savagely.  “ I told  you  I 
would  bring  you  to  the  Duchess’s  room,  and  I have 
done  so.  She  is  there  / ” pointing  to  an  alcove  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  room,  which  was  in  dark- 
ness. 

“ She  must  sleep  soundty,”  answered  Bolton, 
ironically,  “ if  we  have  not  already  awoke  her.” 

“ She  sleeps  always  very  soundly,”  simply  an- 
swered .Maillard,  not  seeming  to  notice  the  detec- 
tive’s irony. 

The  room  was,  like  the  remainder  of  the  house, 
oak-paneled  ; tapestry  portieres  hung  around  it,  and 
within  the  alcove,  at  the  further  end,  stood  a closely- 
curtained  bed. 

Still  grasping  Maillard’s  arm,  Bolton  ap- 
proached the  bed,  and  a shudder  passed  through 
him,  and  the  questions  arose  in  his  mind  : “ What 
should  he  find — there — in  that  bed  ? Why  were  the 
curtains  so  closely  drawn  ? Was  there  an37thing  to 
hide  ? ” 

Recovering  himself  quickly,  he  said  authorita- 
tively to  the  woman  at  his  side,  “Pull  back  those 
curtains  ! ” 

“I  cannot!”  she  whimpered.  “You  hold  me 
so  tight  that  I can’t  move ; and  1 am  black  and 
blue,  you  hurt  me  so  ! ” 

He  slackened  his  hold  a little  at  this  appeal,  but 
repeated,  sternly : 

“ I tell  you,  pull  back  those  curtains  ! ” 

She  did  so,  and  then,  with  an  unearthly  shriek, 
threw  herself  on  the  bed. 

“ They  have  taken  her  away  ! ” she  sobbed. 
“ Oh,  whither  have  they  carried  her  ? My  poor, 
poor  mistress  ! But,  look ; she  has  left  a written 


118 


A “ NOVEL ” NOVEL. 


paper — there  under  the  pillow.  The  other  side. 
Oh,  let  me  read  it,  and  see  what  it  means  ! ” 

She  stretched  her  free  arm  for  it ; hut  Bolton, 
determined  he  should  read  it  first,  pulled  her  back, 
and  thundered  out  : 

“ Girl,  you  have  fooled,  deceived  me,  and  you 
shall  pay  for  this  ! ” 

“ I have  not  deceived  you  ! ” said  the  maid,  pite- 
ously, and  in  tears  ; “ but  the  paper — the  paper  ! 99 

Bolton  leant  eagerly  over  for  the  paper,  which 
he  did  not  see  (because  it  did  not  exist),  and  the 
woman,  by  a quick  movement,  first  blew  out  the 
candle ; then,  twisting*  herself  out  of  bis  necessarily 
relaxed  hold,  as  he  leant  over  the  bed,  pushed  him 
down  violently,  face  downwards,  upon  the  pillows, 
and,  rushing  to  the  door,  opened  it,  passed  through, 
and  had  locked  it  upon  the  outside  before  Bolton 
could  grope  his  way,  in  the  dark,  across  the  room. 

Quickly  Maillard  sped  down  the  passage,  up  a 
flight  of  steps,  and  burst,  all  breathless  and  hys- 
terical, into  her  father’s  room. 

“ Fly  ! fly  ! 99  she  cried,  “ while  you  have  the 
time, 9 7 and  then  she  sank  half-fain  ting  upon  the  couch . 

Moray  was  still  dressed,  late  as  it  was,  and  was 
sitting  at  the  table,  upon  which  his  elbows  rested, 
as  he  supported  his  chin  on  his  hands.  He  started 
when  he  heard  his  door  so  unceremoniously  opened, 
and  seized  a revolver  which  lay  by  his  side. 

“ Fly,  father,  fly  ! 99  gasped  his  daughter  ; “ the 
police  and  a detective  are  in  the  house.  For  God’s 
sake,  save  yourself ! ” 

“ What  do  you  mean  ? ” asked  Moray,  fiercely. 
“ Are  they  already  so  close  upon  me  ? They  had 
better  beware,  however,  of  a desperate  man  ! ” 

“ Father,  for  an  hour  or  two  you  are  safe  ; but 
you  must  go  at  once  ! 99 

“ But  tell  me  what  has  happened  ? ” 

“He — the  detective — seized  upon  me,  before  I 
knew  he  was  there.  He  had  left  the  house — oh  ! I 
had  watched  them — with  his  friends,  or  whoever 
they  were  ; but  he  unfortunately  returned  for  some- 


A “ NOVEL  ” NOVEL. 


119 


thing,  and  found  me.  .He  threatened  me  with  hand- 
cuffs ” (she  shuddered  at  the  recollection),  “ but  I 
did  not  tell  him  anything.  He  offered  me  lots  of 
rewards  if  I would  tell  him  the  truth  ; but  I remem- 
bered your  danger,  and,  in  my  terror,  • an  idea 
struck  me,  and  I outwitted  him,  and  when  he  was 
off  his  guard,  locked  him  up  in  the  Red  Room.  He 
can’t  possibly  get  out,  and ” 

“You  fool ! ” said  Moray,  angrily  ; “ do  you 
mean  to  say  you  locked  him  into  that  room,  close 
to  where  she  is  ? Why,  didn’t  you  hear  the  other 
day  that  time  has  so  rotted  the  wood,  ah  ! and  even 
split  it  here  and  there,  so  that  if  he  were  to  call 
aloud,  or  she  to  scream,  they  might  hear  each 
other’s  voices  ? ” 

“ Father,  I did  my  best,  and  he  can’t  get  out 
for  hours.  So  you  will  have  a good  start ; so 
pray,  pray  go  ! ” 

“ Well,  girl,  the  game  is  up  ! Give  me  my  Aus- 
tralian bowie-knife  and  my  big  cloak.  If  I get  a 
few  hours’  start  I shall  be  safe,  for  I know  where 
to  hide.  In  two  hours  from  the  moment  you  hear 
me  whistle,  you  may  set  your  policeman  free.  He 
may  also  be  told  about  the  Duchess — where  she  is ; 
and  thus  he  and  all  of  them  will  be  too  occupied 
with  her  to  think  at  first  of  tracking  me  ! Then 
they’ll  think  I am  in  hiding  here — somewhere,  and 
will  search  here — and  give  me  another  hour’s  law. 
If  you  don’t  hear  of  me  in  a fortnight’s  time  I 
shall  be  safe,  for  I will  not  be  taken  alive — and  you 
.would  hear  of  that  I But  be  sure  I will  sell  my  life 
dearly.  My  chief  danger  will  be  in  getting  through  these 
woods ; once  out  of  them,  I am  safe  I Good-bye, 
and  kiss  me,  girl,  for  your  poor  mother’s  sake  ! ” 

Kissing  his  daughter  lightly  on  the  forehead, 
and  without  a thought  of  her  ultimate  safety,  he 
blew  out  the  light,  opened  the  shutters,  and  then 
the  window,  and  springing  actively  on  to  the 
bough  of  a large  tree  which  grew  close  to  the 
house- wall,  he  climbed  higher  and  higher  into  its 
branches,  and  his  daughter  saw  him  no  more. 


120 


A “ novel”  novel. 


Gently  closing  the  shutters,  she  sat  down  and 
waited  for  her  father’s  signal.  In  about  ten  min- 
utes she  heard  it — a faint  two  notes,  which  she 
knew  well ; upon  which  she  lit  the  candle,  and  sank 
shiveringly  upon  a couch,  feeling  herself  alone — 
alone. 

“ What  shall  I do  now?  ” she  thought.  “ No 
one  but  myself — not  even  the  other  servants — know 
where  the  Duchess  is,  and  I can’t  get  at  her,  except  J 
through  the  Red  Room,  where  I decoyed  him  and 
locked  him  up.  I will  wait  for  the  two  hours,  to 
give  my  father  start  of  them ; then  I will  push  a 
note  under  the  Red  Room  door,  telling  the  man  in 
it  where  and  how  to  find  the  Duchess,  and  while  Tie  j 
is  seeking  her,  and  out  of  the  room,  I will  unlock  s 
the  door,  so  that  when  he  returns  thither  with  her*  1 
they  will  find  themselves  free.  Ah  ! I’m  a vile  ■ 
woman,  I know,  but  a very  miserable  one  ; and  I t 
often  felt  sorry  for  her,  poor  thing — so  gentle  and 
good.  But,  oh  ! I envy  her,  happiness  now.  I will 
tell  Gretchen  what  I have  done.  I always  felt  she  \ 
was  the  Duchess’s  friend  ! And  then  I — I — where  * 
shall  I go  ? ” 

A burst  of  weeping  was  her  answer  to  this  ques- 
tion. Then  she  got  a piece  of  paper  and  a pencil,  ] 
and  wrote  thus  : 

“ The  Duchess  is  hidden  in  a secret  room,  which  can  only  be 
entered  through  the  Red  Room,  in  which  you  are.  So  if  you 
wish  to  find  her,  follow  these  directions : 

“ Upon  the  top  panel,  nearest  to  the  alcove  on  the  right,  you 
will,  if  you  look  carefully,  perceive  that  the  wood  is  slightly 
uneven.  Press  your  finger  on  the  rough  edge,  and  a panel  at  ; 
the  head  of  the  bed  will  slide  away,  opening  a space  large 
enough  for  you  to  pass  through.  You  will  find  yourself  in  a 
dark  passage,  at  the  end  of  which  is  a corkscrew  stair.  Descend, 
and  walk  along  the  next  dark  passage.  You  wiU  come  to  another  ^ 
corkscrew  stair,  which  ascend,  and  when  you  stand  on  the  top 
Btep  you  will  see  a wooden  molding  on  the  left.  Pass  your  hand 
behind  it,  and  you  will  feel  a small  hole,  into  which  insert  your 
finger  and  press  the  spring.  A door  on  the  left  will  swing  open, 
and  inside  it  another  door.  Joan  Moray.’ ’ 

She  folded  the  paper  and  put  it  in  her  bosom, 
then  sitting  down  opposite  the  clock,  waited  wearily 
for  the  two  hours  to  pass. 


A “NOVEL”  novel. 


121 


Meantime  Bolton  raged  up  and  down  the  Red 
Room,  like  a lion  caged.  He  attacked  the  door 
first,  of  course,  trying  to  force  it,  but  it  was  a solid 
piece  of  wood  and  invulnerable,  and  it  opened  in- 
wards. Then  he  brought  out  a bunch  of  keys  to 
see  if  by  good  chance  any  of  them  might  fit  the 
door  lock,  but  to  no  use.  In  his  impotent  rage  he 
tore  down  the  'portieres , and,  calling  to  mind  the 
mode  by  which  the  woman  had  opened  the  sliding 
door  of  the  library,  he  pressed  and  pinched  every 
apparent  excrescence  till  his  fingers  were  sore  and 
aching  like  his  heart. 

At  last,  tired  out,  he  sank  upon  a couch  and  be- 
wailed his  fate.  How  exasperating  to  have  been 
defeated,  just  when  he  was  on' the  eve  (he  felt  sure 
of  that ) of  a great  discovery  ! Then  suddenly  he 
remembered  that  the  Duchess  was  certainty  in  this 
very  house,  probably  imprisoned  as  he  was,  and 
perhaps  not  many  yards  away.  The  thought  was 
humiliating— maddening.  What  should  he  do  that 
he  had  not  done  ? 

“ Do  ? ” he  exclaimed  excitedly.  “ Why,  shout, 
howl,  roar  and  make  an  infernal  noise  ! ” Firstly, 
because  the  Duchess  might  hear  him  and  call  back ; 
and,  secondly,  because  he  was  sure  that  the  Red 
Room  in  which  he  was  confined  was  on  the  ground 
floor,  and  therefore  his  friends  outside  who  were 
watching  the  house  might  hear  him.  So  he  set  to 
work  with  a will,  shouting,  bawling  at  the  very 
top  of  his  voice,  “Your  Grace!  Your  Grace! 
Allonby  ! De  Yere  ! ” Then  he  thumped  on  the 
wainscotting,  and  again  screamed  the  same  words, 
only  he  added,  “If  your  Grace  hears,  pray  answer 
a friend  ! ” But  hush  ! He  fancied— nay,  he  was 
sure,  he  heard  a voice,  a woman’s  voice,  faintly 
raised  in  answer  to  his  own.  There  ! again  he 
heard  it ! 

“ Madame,”  our  poor  prisoner  again  vociferated, 
“if  you  hear  me,  answer,  and  say  where  you  are.” 

Again  the  voice  was  raised,  but  with  the  unsat- 
isfactory words,  “ I am  here  ! Help,  help  ! ” 


122 


A ‘ ‘ NOVEL  ’ 5 NOVEL. 

a 

“ My  God  ! ” said  the  detective : “ what  is  to  be 
done  ? 99 

He  sat  some  moments  in  mute  despair,  when 
suddenly  he  heard  a . sort  of  rustle,  and,  turning 
quickly,  perceived  a note  had  been  pushed  in  be- 
neath the  door.  Rushing  frantically  across  the 
room,  he  seized  the  door  handle.  No  S still  locked.  - 
He  listened ; he  thought  he  heard  quickly  retreat-  J 
ing  footsteps. 

Once  more  he  belabored  the  door,  and  then  pro-  1 
ceeded  (as  no  doubt  he  would  have  done  at  once  had  i 
he  not  been  a clever  detective)  to  tear  open  and  jj 
read  the  letter. 

Wild  with  joy  at  its  import,  he  set  himself  at  \ 
once  to  follow  the  directions.  Seizing  a chair,  he  j 
mounted  on  it,  beneath  the  spot  indicated  in  the 
letter,  felt  carefully  along  the  panel,  discovered  the 
slight  unevenness  in  the  wood,  and  pressed  it  on  the  i 
rough  edge.  He  instantly  heard  a faint  rumble  at 
the  head  of  the  bed,  and,  oh  joy  ! upon  hastening  to 
the  place,  he  beheld  a small  aperture,  through  4 
which  he  crept  carefully  on  his  hands  and  knees.  | 
Holding  his  instructions  in  one  hand,  and  carrying  T 
his  candle  high  above  his  head  in  the  other,  he 
looked  cautiously  around.  A dark  passage  and  a \ 
winding  stair  at  the  farther  end,  which  he  de- 
scended, and  entered  into  another  dark  passage,  j 
slightly  longer  than  the  first.  There  was  a turn,  , 
also,  in  this  one,  and  then  he  came  upon  the  second 
winding  stair.  Quickty  ascending  the  steps,  when 
he  arrived  at  the  topmost  one,  he  sought  and  found 
the  molding  and  the  hole inserting  his  finger,  he  | 
pressed  the  spring,  and  again  he  heard  a sound,  and 
a door  flew  open,  discovering  another  door,  the  en-  3 
trance  to  the  room. 

His  heart  beat  so,  he  could  scarcely  stand ; but 
recovering  himself,  he  turned  the  handle  and  en- 
tered. As  he  did  so,  a lovely  but  fragile-looking 
lady  rose  hastily  from  a couch.  She  was  so  pale, 
so  thin,  that  she  seemed  like  an  ethereal  being  more 
than  a woman ; and  her  excitement  at  the  entrance 


A “ NOVEL  ” NOVEL. 


123 


of  a stranger,  although  a friend,  was  so  great  that, 
in  spite  of  poor  Bolton’s  expressions  of  reassuring 
sympathy  and  joy,  she  uttered  a wild  shriek,  and 
fell  at  his  feet  in  a faint. 


CHAPTER  XVIII.  • 

By  Miss  Edith  Ostlers. 

THE  MEETING  IN  THE  WOODS. 

Lady  Allonby,  Lord  de  Vere  (for  we  will  now 
call  him  by  his  rightful  title),  and  the  Duke  re- 
mained in  the  carriage,  waiting  for  Bolton’s  return 
with  the  cloak ; but,  after  nearly  ten  minutes  had 
elapsed  and  he  did  not  reappear,  the  Duke’s  patience 
gave  way,  and,  not  suspecting  the  truth,  “ What 
can  be  detaining  Bolton  all  this  while  ? ” he  said. 
“ If  that  villain  has  taken  my  wife  away  again  we 
are  losing  all  chance  of  finding  them  at  this  rate, 
for  we  are  wasting  time,  which,  now  that  every  mo- 
ment is  precious  to  us,  is  simply  madness.” 

“You  are  right,”  said  De  Vere;  “ I will  join 
Boltoii,  and  we  will  take  the  short  road  through 
the  forest.  Perhaps  by  that  means  one  or  other  of 
us  may  come  upon  some  clew.  At  any  rate,  it  is 
useless  for  us  all  to  wait  here.” 

The  Duke  readily  agreed  to  this  proposal,  and 
as  the  carriage  drove  off  with  himself  and  Lady 
Allonby,  Lord  de  Vere  returned  once  more  to  the 
White  House. 

He  had  entered  the  gate,  and  almost  reached  the 
door,  when  he  heard  two  low  whistles  from  the  ad= 
jacent  wood,  and,  turning  quickly,  he  descried  in 
the  gathering  gloom  a dark  figure,  which  darted 
like  a shadow  among  the  trees  on  his  left. 

At  once  it  flashed  upon  him  that  it  was  Boltons 
who  had  evidently  discovered  something,  and  had 
whistled  to  attract  his  attention. 

The  wildness  and  grimness  of  the  place  were  in- 
describable. 

He  heard  the  brushwood  crackle  behind  him,  and 
turning,  saw  the  figure  of  a man  rapidly  advancing. 


124 


> 1 

A “novel”  novel. 

Eagerly  and  joyfully  he  hastened  to  meet  it. 

“ Bolton  ! ” he  said  ; “ is  it  you  ? ” 

The  man  was' within  ten  paces  of  him.  At  the 
sound  of  his  voice,  he  stopped  short,  irresolute  for  a 
moment ; then,  without  answering,  he  turned  round, 
and  was  about  to  retreat  as  rapidly  as  he  had  come, 
when  De  Yere  hurried  forward,  and,  taking  him  by  : 
the  arm — 

“Who  are  you  ? ” he  cried. 

Still  no  answer,  hut  the  man  wrenched  himself, 
away. 

Quick  as  thought  De  Yere  felt  for  his  match-box,  S 
and  struck  a light. 

The  flame  flickered  up  brightly,  and  for  one  mo-  j 
ment  shone  on  the  face  of  the  strange  man  ; then  a 
sudden  gust  of  wind  came  and  extinguished  it. 

But,  in  that  moment.  Lord  de  Vere  recognized 
the  face  of  Frank  Moray. 

He  staggered  back  as  though  he  had  received  a 
blow,  the  smoldering  match  fell  from  his  hand,  his  . 
brain  swam.  4 

And,  his  whole  frame  trembling  with  wrath  and  j 
excitement,  he  stretched  out  his  hands  to  clutch  his  j 
enemy,  and  the  two  men  closed  in  a deadly  grapple.  ] 

At  length,  by  a dexterous  turn,  Moray  threw  De  ■ 
Yere  upon  the  ground,  and  planting  his  knee  upon  J 
the  prostrate  man’s  chest — treacherous  to  the  end  ; 
— he  drew  his  bowie  knife  from  his  belt. 

There  was  a bright  flash  of  steel,  a horrid  thug 
sound  as  the  blade  struck  into  the  quivering  flesh,  a 
choking  gasp,  and  De  Yere,  who  had  struggled  on  j 
to  his  elbow  again,  fell  heavily  back,  still  clutching  i 
Moray  with  frenzied  hands.  Freeing  himself  with  1 
difficulty  from  this  horrible  embrace,  saturated  j 
with  the  warm  blood  that  gushed  forth  from  his 
victim’s  side,  Moray  sprang  to  his  feet,  and,  tremb-j 
ling  in  every  limb,  stood  in  an  attitude  of  intense 
fear,  listening  intently. 

For,  simultaneously  with  the  flash  of  the  knife  , 
as  he  drew  it  forth,  he  had  heard  a stifled  cry  from. 
among  the  trees  at  the  back,  and  the  guilty  wretch, 


A “ novel”  novel. 


125 


fearing  a witness  to  his  crime,  remained  paralyzed 
with  terror,  great  drops  standing  out  on  his  fore- 
head, every  fiber  of  his  frame  shaking.  Then,  as 
all  was  still,  with  a great  effort  he  dashed  his  hand 

across  his  brow.  , , , ...  , 

“ What  a fool  I am,”  he  muttered,  to  think 
any  one  could  have  been  watching.  And  yet  that 
cry — pshaw  ! it  must  have  been  some  wild  animal 
I heard,  or  a creaking  bough.” 

With  a cry  like  some  wild  beast,  he  dashed  into 
the  darkest  depths  of  the  forest  and  disappeared. 

And  the  wind  tore  after  him,  and  shrieked  as  it 

passed  the  silent  body  on  the  ground. 
r * * * * * 

Two  minutes  later  the  bushes  at  the  back  parted 
and  the  frightened  face  of  a girl  appeared. 

It  was  G-retchen. 

White  and  trembling,  she  emerged  from  her 
hiding-place,  and  glancing  furtively  around  her, 
with  chattering  teeth,  the  terrified  girl  approached 
the  body  that  lay  so  quiet  and  awful  upon  the  soft 
green  moss. 

Twice  she  stopped,  sick  with  fear,  then  nerving 
herself  bravely  to  her  task,  she  knelt  beside  the 
motionless  figure,  and  turned  it  gently  over ; and, 
although  the  ghastly,  distorted  face  and  the  sight 
of  the  dark  blood  made  the  poor  girl  shake  like  an 
aspen,  she  persevered,  and  placing  her  hand  on  his 
heart — 

“ Grott  in  Himmel  be  praised ! ” she  cried,  “ he 
lives ! ” 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

By  Miss  Lena  M.  Horsford. 

“ After  long  storms  and  tempests  overblowne, 

The  sunne  at  length  his  joyous  face  doth  cleare.” 

. — Spenser. 

In  the  meantime,  Bolton  was  doing  his  best  to 
restore  the  Duchess  to  consciousness.  Now  that  he 
had  once  gained  possession  of  her,  he  was  deter- 
mined not  to  lose  sight  of  her  for  an  instant,  and 


126  A “novel”  novel. 

n 

to  give  no  one  the  slightest  chance  of  carrying  her 
off  again. 

“ Courage,”  he  said  gently,  as  his  efforts  were 
rewarded,  and  Seringa  looked  inquiringly  into  his  ' 
face.  ' “You  are  safe  with  me,  and  I will  take  you  j 
back  to  your  husband : your  troubles  are  almost 
over,  dear  lady.” 

The  Duchess  clasped  her  thin  white  hands  round 
the  detective’s  wrist. 

“ Don’t  leave  me,”  she  implored,  raising  herself 
from  the  recumbent  position  in  which  he  had  placed 
her.  “ I am  afraid  of  him ; he  is  so  reckless  of  late,  ' 
as  though  he  would  stay  at  nothing  to  gain  his  own 
ends,  that  I,  his  daughter,  am  beginning  to  hate  i 
him.” 

The  sound  of  hurried  footsteps  upon  the  graveled  j 
path  outside  broke  up  his  reflections,  and  he  turned 
from  the  window  just  as  Gretchen  appeared  in  the  1 
doorway.  She  told  her  story  to  Bolton  as  quietly 
as  possible,  so  as  not  to  alarm  the  Duchess,  and  . 
then  waited  to  receive  his  orders.  j 

For  some  minutes  Bolton  hesitated,  not  knowing 
exactly  how  to  proceed. 

Nothing  could  be  done  until  help  came,  and 
Gretchen  was  dispatched  to  procure  a carriage  and 
everything  necessary  to  convey  the  wounded  man 
and  his  unfortunate  daughter  to  their  friends. 

As  soon  as  she  had  started,  Seringa  turned  to  . 
the  detective. 

“ Come,”  she  said,  “ I know  where  to  find 
brandy  and  soft  handkerchiefs.  We  will  go  out  to.  j 
this  stranger ; you  know  him,  I daresay,  although  i 
Gretchen  does  not.  He  may  bleed  to  death  out  , 
there,  while  I,  whom  he  came  to  help,  am  waiting 
here.  You  can  use  your  whistle  as  a signal  to  let  ] 
them  know  where  we  are.” 

At  last  the  preparations  were  completed,  and 
with  Seringa’s  hands  tightly  clasped  round  his ; 
arm,  the  detective  led  her  out  into  the  wood  in  the  j 
direction  of  the  clearing  spoken  of  by  Gretchen. 

The  Duchess’s  strength  was  giving  out,  and 


A “NOVEL.”  NOVEL.  127 

Bolton  was  beginning*  to  fear  lest  she  would  over- 
tax herself,  when  a slight  opening  in  the  trees, 
showing  a clear  space  beyond,  told  him  that  their 
walk  was  at  an  end. 

A break  in  the  clouds  and  a bright  gleam  of 
moonlight,  lasting  rather  longer  than  usual,  en- 
abled them  to  see  the  figure  of  a man  lying  on  the 
grass. 

Seringa  rallied  her  failing  strength,  and  moving 
quickly  onward,  knelt  down  by  his  side.  For  some 
minutes  neither  spoke ; both  were  too  busy  doing 
their  best  for  the  sufferer. 

At  last  Bolton  rose  to  his  feet;  he  had  done  his 
utmost,  and  they  must  now  wait  until  help  came. 
He  suggested  rolling  his  overcoat  into  a cushion 
and  putting  it  under  Lord  de  Vere’s  head,  that 
Seringa  might  rise,  but  she  would  not  hear  of  it. 

“Who  is  he?”  whispered  the  Duchess  after  a 
while,  as  he  paused  before  her. 

In  as  few  words  as  possible  he  repeated  to  her 
the  substance  of  the  story  Lord  de  Yere  had  told 
them  in  the  carriage  earlier  in  the  evening.  Her 
face  grew  white  as  she  listened,  and  then  lighted 
up  with  a loving  look  as  she  bent  and  kissed  his 
forehead. 

“My  father!”  she  murmured.  “I  have  had 
my  share  of  suffering,  but  yours  has  been  far  more 
grievous,  for  when  he  had  kept  you  a prisoner  out 
there  in  Australia,  he  parted  you  for  ever  from 
home  and  the  wife  you  loved,  while  I shall  again 
meet,  and  perhaps  be  happy  with  my  loved  one. 
There  is  no  fear  of  my  oath  being  the  cause  of  any 
more  misery,  now  that  I know  the  man  I thought 
to  be  my  father  is  only  an  impostor.” 

“Will  you  tell  me  what  your  oath  was,  Lady 
Seringa  ? ” Bolton  asked.  “ That  he  reminded  you 
of  it  when  he  wrote  that  note  on  your  wedding-day 
I know,  for  I found  the  remains  of  it.” 

“ It  was  a very  simple  one,”  returned  Seringa, 
quietly,  scarcely  lifting  her  eyes  from  the  white, 
unconscious  face  on  her  lap.  “ When  my  mother 


128 


A 


“ NOVEL  ” NOVEL. 


was  dying  she  told  me  that  my  father  was  out  in 
Australia,  and  in  some  kind  of  trouble,  and  she 
made  me  swear  if  ever  it  was  in  my  power  to  help 
him  in  any  way  I would  do  so,  no  matter  what  the 
cost  might  be  to  myself.  Two  years  afterwards  I 
was  called  upon  to  fulfill  part  at  least  of  my  oath, 
and  I married  Sidney  Arkell,  bad  and  cruel  man  as 
I knew  him  to  be,  to  save  him  who  called  himself  f 
my  father  from  ruin  and  disgrace.” 

A footstep  sounding  upon  the  crisp  dead  leaves,  j 
which  lay  thickly  on  the  ground,  made  Bolton  turn  : 
quickly  in  the  direction  from  whence  ib  came,  but  j 
before  he  could  utter  a word  the  intruder  had  run  j 
forward,  and  thrown  herself  down  beside  the  I 
Duchess. 

“ Maillard  ! ” the  lady  exclaimed. 

Afraid  of  some  new  treachery,  the  detective 
grasped  her  arm  and  drew  her  away. 

“Why  are  you  here  ? ” he  asked. 

“ To  make  what  reparation  I can,”  sobbed  the 
wretched  maid,  “ and  to  ask  forgiveness  for  all  I « 
have  helped  to  make  my  lady  suffer.” 

“ Rather  late  to  ask  forgiveness,”  he  remarked, 
grimly.  “ You  wait  until  the  game  is  up,  and  then 
try  to  make  what  you  call  reparation  for  the  months  i 
of  misery  you  have  inflicted  upon  your  mistress.” 

“ I could  not  act  differently.  He  had  me  in  his 
power  even  more  securely  than  he  had  her,”  re-  ' 
turned  Maillard,  turning  her  face,  red  and  swollen 
with  crying,  full  upon  her  captor.  “ Listen  but  a 
moment,  and  you  will  see.  For  eight  long  years  I . 
had  not  seen  Lord  de  Vere,  as  I then  thought  him, 
until  the  wedding  morning,  when  he  waylaid  me  on 
my  way  to  the  Duke’s  house,  to  help  my  mistress 
after  the  service  was  over.  Both  she  and  I believed 
him  to  be  abroad.  He  was  waiting  at  the  gates, 
and  spoke  to  me,  asking  if  his  daughter  was  mar- 
ried. I told  him  I should  think  so  by  that  time. 
Then  he  said  he  had  traveled  night  and  day,  hop- 
ing to  be  in  time  to  stop  it,  as  her  first  husband  was 
alive.” 


A “NOVEL  ” NOVEL.  129 

“ Was  it  true  ? ” breathed  Seringa. 

“ No/’  was  the  decided  answer.  “Mr.  Arkell 
shot  himself  dead  at  his  club,  as  it  was  reported  at 
the  time.” 

The  Duchess  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

“ Thank  God  ! ” she  said,  reverently.  “ If  he  is 
dead  nothing  can  sever  me  from  my  beloved  hus- 
band.” 

“ Something  in  his  face  made  me  ask  if  it  was 
true,”  continued  Maillard.  “ ‘ Quite  true/  he  said, 
( If  I were  the  Duke  of  Mowbray  I should  want 
more  proof  than  your  word  for  it/  I answered. 
His  face  grew  white  with  passion,  and  he  grasped 
my  arm.  ‘Listen,  girl/  he  hissed.  ‘It  needs  but 
a word  from  me  and  the  police  have  the  clew  they 
need  to  bring  your  husband,  Frank  Maillard,  to  an- 
swer for  the  crime  committed  so  many  years  ago 
out  there  in  the  bush.  Aid  me  to  the  best  of  your 
ability,  and  he  is  safe ; defy  me,  and  take  the  con- 
sequences. I can  bring  her  to  me  at  my  slightest 
call;  take  care  she  knows  nothing  of  what  I have 
told  you  about  Arkell,  I will  tell  her  myself . Money 
I must  and  will  have,  and  as  long  as  she  is  with  the 
Duke  that  is  an  impossibility/  It  was  not  until 
two  days  ago  I learned  that  my  father,  and  not 
my  husband,  was  guilty  of  the -murder  out  in 
Australia,  and  that  he  whom  all  these  months  I 
had  believed  to  be  Lord  de  Yere  was  in  reality 
my  father,  and  no  relation  of  her  Grace’s  at  alL 
I prayed  him  then  to  let  her  go  free,  while  he 
and  I sought  safety  abroad,  but  he  would  not ; 
and  how  could  I,  his  daughter,  be  the  first  to  be- 
tray  him?” 

Poor  girl ! ” murmured  the  Duchess  compassion- 
ate^, holding  out  her  hand  in  token  of  forgiveness. 
“ I can  forgive  anything  now  that  I have  the  hap- 
piness of  knowing  that  I shall  soon  be  reunited  to 
my  dear  husband,  and  that  nothing  can  part  us 
more.” 

In  a few  minutes  more  Gretchen  came  up  to 
them,  followed  by  a doctor  whom  she  had  fetched, 


130 


A “novel”  novel. 


while  the  carriage  was  being  made  ready.  At  last  ' 
the  hotel  was  reached,  and  the  detective  alighted 
and  went  in  alone.  In  a few  moments  he  returned. 

“Come,”  he  said  to  the  Duchess,  holding  out 
his  hand  to  assist  her  to  the  ground.  Oblivious  of  | 
all  but  that  she  was  going  into  her  husband’s  pres-  : 
ence.  Seringa  obeyed,  and,  with  one  trembling  hand 
lying  on  his  arm,  walked  up  the  steps  and  into  the  i 
hall.  He  saw  the  Duke  rise  from  a seat  near  the  J 
table,  and  gaze  at  the  figure  by  his  side  as  though  J 
unable  to  believe  his  sight,  then,  hs  she  sprang  for-  i 
ward  with  a cry  of  “ Carrol,  my  husband ! ” he  1 
closed  the  door  and  left  them  together. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

By  Miss  Daisy  Moutray  Read. 

“AT  LAST  ALL  SHALL  BE  WELL.” 

“ All’ s well  that  ends  well.  ’ ’ — Shakespeare . 1 

Having  left  the  restored  lovers  together,  Bolton  4 
returned  to  the  carriage  and  assisted  in  removing 
Lord  de  Yere  to  his  own  room.  The  hastily  sum-  I 
moned  Dresden  doctors  agreed  that  care  was  the 
only  thing  necessary,  and  rest.  A few  weeks  would  | 
see  him  all  right  again. 

Much  relieved  by  this  good  news,  the  hard-work- 
ing detective  returned  to  the  room  where  Gretchen  ' 
and  Maillard  were  eagerly  expecting  him,  the  latter  i 
still  weeping  bitterly. 

“ Tell  me,  there  is  hope  ? He  will  live  ? ” she  i 
exclaimed. 

“ There  are  great  hopes  that  his  lordship  may 
do  so,”  was  the  grave  answer.  “ Joan  Maillard,  j 
I must  have  a private  conversation  with  you,  and 
you  are  to  consider  yourself  as  under  arrest.” 

The  girl  gave  a frightened  cry  and  clung  to 
Gretchen. 

Just  then  the  door  opened,  and  Lord  and  Lady 
Allonby,  with  Clive  Lyndhurst,  entered. 

“ What  news 't  ” 


A 


“ novel”  novel. 


131 


“ Gretchen,  Maillard,  you  here  ! " 

“The  Duchess?"  they  exclaimed,  simultane- 
ously. 

“ Is  safe,  thank  God,  and  with  her  husband/'  re- 
plied Bolton,  reverently. 

“ Thank  God,  indeed,"  was  the  fervent  response. 

“How  did  you  come?"  asked  Lady  Allonby, 
after  an  instant's  silence. 

Quickly  Bolton  recounted  his  adventures  in  the 
White  House  after  his  return  for  the  cloak,  then  of 
Gretchen’s  fortunate  appearance,  and  of  their  re- 
turn with  the  almost  murdered  Lord  de  Vere,  add 
mg— 

“But  I have  no  time  to  stay  now;  the  murderer 
must  be  stopped  at  once.  Maillard,"  he  continued, 
as  she  gave  a low  cry,  “is  put  under  arrest.  1 
must  be  off.  Lord  Allonby,  will  you  come  with 
me  ? 'Twill  be  a hard  and  dangerous  job,  I fear." 

“We  will  both  come,"  said  Clive  Lyndhurst, 
and  the  three  men  hurried  out. 

Lady  Allonby  turned  to  the  weeping  girl. 

“ Forgive  me,,  forgive  me  ! " moaned  the  wretch- 
ed woman. 

“I  have  forgiven  you,"  said  a sweet  voice. 

All  three  glanced  up.  The  Duke  had  entered  the 
room  with  his  wife  on  his  arm. 

Next  minute  the  lovely  Duchess  was  kneeling 
beside  the  suppliant,  mingling  her  tears  with  those 
of  her  persecutor. 

The  Duke  and  Duchess  left  Dresden  almost  irm 
mediately,  to  spend  the  winter  months  in  Italy, 
before  returning  to  Mowbray  Castle ; Maillard,  at 
her  own  passionate  request,  remaining  with  them 
as  maid.  She  had  willingly  made  a full  confession 
of  the  whole  horrible  plot. 

Frank  Moray,  taking  the  place  of  Lord  de  Vere 
(after  that  unfortunate  gentleman's  incarceration 
in  Australia),  returned  to  Europe,  but  not  to  Lady 
de  Vere,  alleging  as  his  reason  for  so  doing  that  he 
was  in  trouble  through  another,  and  must  live  in- 
cognito. 


132 


A “ NOVEL  ” NOVEL. 


Lady  de  Yere  lived  as  a widow  with  her  only 
child.  Lady  Seringa ; and  she,  Joan  Moray,  was 
her  maid.  After  Lady  de  Vere’s  death,  Moray,  3 
personating  Lord  de  Vere,  returned  to  fetch  his  J 
daughter.  About  the  same  time  Joan  met  and 
married  Frank  Maillard,  who  afterwards  deserted  ' | 
her,  on  which  she  returned  to  her  young  lady,  then 
married  to  Mr.  Arkell. 

Lord  de  Vere  they  seldom  saw,  never  during  J 
the  eight  years  of  Lady  Seringa’s  widowhood.  The  a 
letter  Bolton  found  was  one  from  Moray  to  herself, 
announcing  that  he  held  her  husband’s  life  in  his 
hands,  telling  of  the  murder,  which  he  afterwards 
confessed  to  have  committed  himself : indeed,  Mail-  = 
lard  was  the  murdered,  not  the  murderer. 

The  rest  of  the  sad  story  was  now  known.  Lady 
Seringa  was  persuaded  to  fly  by  the  news  that 
Arkell  was  not  dead  ; this,  however,  the  pretended 
De  V ere  denied  afterwards,  telling  her  that  he 
kept  her  merely  as  a safeguard  for  his  own  life, 
which  was  in  danger  from  an  intimate  friend  of  the  i 
Duke  of  Mowbray’s. 

The  poor  girl  was  utterly  broken  down  after 
telling  her  story.  With  many  tears,  she  gave  the 
Duchess  a tiny  parcel,  which  on  opening  was  found 
to  contain  the  missing  miniature  of  the  Duke. 

“My  father  took  the  jeweled  lid  and  clasp,”  she 
sobbed,  “ but  I saved  this,  though  I dared  not  give 
it  you  before.  The  bracelet  was  sold  to  Gretchen 
Schmidt’s  brother  at  Bauton.”  - 

“ It  is  here,”  said  the  Duke,  smiling,  and  clasp- 
ing it  round  the  fair  white  wrist. 

So  Maillard  went  with  the  Duchess.  The  great 
sorrow  she  had  gone  through  had  softened  her  con-  J 
siderably,  and  Lady  Allonby  and  the  Duchess  1 

hoped  she  would  be  won  by  sorrow"  to  better  things. 

Hi  * * * ❖ 3 

While  Lord  de  Yere  had  lain  unconscious  beside 
his  daughter  and  Bolton,  his  would-be  murderer  j 
was  hastening  away,  away  ! Escape  ! escape  ! ! 1 
That  was  now  all  that  remained  for  him ; he  mut- 


A.  ‘ € NOVEL  ’ ’ NOVEL. 


133 


tered  over  and  over  again  that  one  word,  and 
strained  every  nerve  to  accomplish  the  fact. 

After  hours  of  struggling,  he  gained  the  place 
he  had  determined  on  as  his  first  shelter — a mount- 
ain cavern,  overhung  by  heavy  rocks  and  almost 
hidden  by  a rank  mass  of  dying  creepers,  stunted 
trees,  and  bushes. 

Dead  beat,  the  wretched  man  threw  himself  on 
the  ground  with  a loud  groan,  and  drained  his 
brandy-flask  to  the  last  drop. 

Louder  yet  grew  the  storm  sounds  ; the  crash  of 
a forest  tree  was  echoed  by  a louder  roar  from 
the  heights  above  the  torrent : a huge  piece  of 
rock,  loosened  from  its  treacherous  hold  by  the  com- 
bined efforts  of  wind  and  rain,  had  fallen,  blocking 
up  alike  all  entrance  or  egress  from  the  cavern. 

Next  summer  a company  of  woodmen  came  to 
the  Torrent  Cave  for  shelter.  The  stream  had 
worn  awray  the  rocky  barrier,  and  with  their  united 
efforts  it  was  rolled  aside.  But  the  cavern  w7as 
not  used  as  a shelter  that  day. 

Lying  by  the  blocked-up  entrance  was  the  skele- 
ton of  a man  ; his  left  hand  clasped  a brandy-flask, 
and  in  his  right  was  an  Australian  bowie-knife. 

jfc  ^ ~ 

A son  and  heir  had  come  to  bring  added  joy  and 
peace  to  Castle  Mowbray  ere  the  news  of  Frank 
Moray’s  awful  fate  reached  England.  For  many 
days  the  Duke  dared  not  tell  his  wife;  but  one 
calm  autumn  evening  she  left  her  seat  by  the  baby’s 
cot,  and  stood  beside  him  in  the  large  oriel  window, 
her  head  resting  lovingly  on  his  shoulder. 

A woman,  with  sad  face  and  quiet  black  dress, 
entered  with  a note. 

“Poor  Maillard ! ” said  Seringa,  when  she  had 
left  the  room ; “ after  all,  she  has  suffered  most.  I 
wonder,  will  she  ever  again  hear  of  her  father? 
Carrol,  you  start ; you  have  heard  something  ? ” 

“Yes,  my  Desiree,  but  I did  not  wish  to  pain 
you.”  Then  he  told  her  all. 


134 


A “novel”  novel. 


The  sunset  lights  faded  from  the  sky,  the  flicker- 
ing shadows  played  on  the  walls.  Still  they  sat  by 
the  window,  hand  in  hand,  her  head  on  his  shoulder. 

“ The  brightness  is  complete  now,”  she  said. 

“ Yes ; it  was  a dark  beginning  for  our  journey 
of  life  together,  my  own ; but  the  past  darkness 
only  enhances  the  present  brightness,  and  to- 
gether, dear,  our  love  will  lighten  every  sorrow, 
and  increase  every  joy  that  the  future  may  bring.” 


A ‘ ‘ NOVEL  7 7 NOVEL* 


135 


THE  PLOT. 

By  Lady  Constance  Howard . 

IN  THE  FOLLOWING  CHAPTER  THE  AUTHORESS  OF  THE  FIRST 
EXPLAINS  HOW  SHE  WOULD  HAVE  DEVELOPED  THE  STORY 
HAD  SHE  BEEN  WRITING  THE  ENTIRE  NOVEL. 

“ Come  what  come  may. 

Time  and  the  hour  run  through  the  roughest  day.” 

Macbeth , Shakespeare. 

In  spite  of  all  the  efforts  of  the  Duke,  Vernil,  Tredegar, 
and  Clive  Lyndhurst,  aided  by  the  staff  at  Scotland  Yard, 
no  expense  being  spared,  time  passes  on,  and  there  is  no 
trace  whatever  of  the  missing  Duchess  ; she  has  gone  as 
completely  as  Gainsborough’s  famous  picture  of  the  Duchess 
of  Devonshire. 

The  Duke,  almost  distracted,  as  well  he  may  be — no  fancy 
as  to  what  can  have  become  of  his  idolized  wife,  is  too  mild 
for  him  to  entertain,  but  they  all  are  wide  of  the  mark,  as 
Seringa  remains  4 ‘ lost  to  sight,  to  memory  dear.”  The 
Duke  believes  that  she  must  be  dead,  or  she  would  relieve 
his  anxiety  as  to  her  whereabouts,  and  explain  her  extra- 
ordinary conduct,,  He  will  have  nothing  to  say  to  the  the- 
ory of  her  first  husband  being  alive,  as  if  that  were  the 
case,  he  thinks  she  would  have  told  the  truth  to  him,  and 
though  it  meant  parting  to  them  both,  at  least  he  would 
have  known  his  darling  s fate.  And  if  freedom  in  the  future 
had  mercifully  been  granted  to  them,  Seringa  would  have 
found  him  waiting  in  truth  and  constancy  for  her,  for  no 
other  woman  would  ever  call  him  husband,  so  long  as  she 
was  alive,  probably  not  were  she  dead,  for  the  Duke  was  one 
of  those  rare  men  who  love  once  and  for  ever,  whether  their 
love  brings  them  happiness  or  misery  ; indeed,  when  the  lat- 
ter is  the  case,  cling  to  it  all  the  more  obstinately. 

The  Duke  was  quite  broken-hearted — a mere  shadow  of 
himself,  refused  to  go  out,  and  seemed  to  have  but  one  in- 
terest in  life — the  detective’s  reports  which  reach  him  almost 


136 


A “NOVEL”  novel. 


daily,  only  to  make  him  more  despairing  as  time  flies,  and 
fee  seems  as  far  as  ever  from  tidings  of  the  Duchess. 

At  last  Lady  Allonby  persuades  him  to  go  down  with 
her  to  her  beautiful  country  place,  Woodbridge,  in  Hert- 
fordshire, telling  him  that  any  news  can  be  sent  on  to  him 
there,  and  trying  by  every  means  in  her  power  to  lighten 
some  of  his  terrible  troubles. 

He  finds  comfort  in  talking  with  his  sister  and  Lord  Al- 
lonby, one  of  the  few  people  who  seem  to  have  known 
Seringa’s  first  husband  well,  and  who  describes  him  as  about 
as  bad  a specimen  of  his  sex  as  the  world  could  show.  He 
was  selfish,  unprincipled — for  not  even  such  a woman  as  Se- 
ringa for  his  wife  had  power  to  keep  him  straight ; a bom 
gambler  and  spendthrift,  with  no  consideration  for  his  wife, 
who  had  been  sacrificed  to  him  as  a means  of  paying  her 
father’s  debt  to  him. 

Seringa’s  father  died  just  before  her  husband,  and  since 
the  latter’s  disappearance  she  had  led  the  quietest  life,  see- 
ing but  few  people. 

Her  maid  was  devoted  to  her,  having  lived  in  her  service 
many  years  before  she  married  Mr.  Arkell. 

No  trace  of  him  had  ever  been  found  ; by  his  will  he  left 
considerable  property  to  Seringa,  who  had  lived  in  perfect 
comfort. 

She  made  the  Duke’s  acquaintence  seven  years  after  she 
became  a widow,  and  they  were  married  a year  after.  She 
had  no  children. 

Out  of  consideration  for  her  brother’s  grief,  Lady  Allonby 
had  no  one  at  first  staying  at  Woodbridge,  so  the  Duke  and 
Lord  Allonby  could  amuse  themselves  as  they  pleased  with- 
out the  trouble  of  entertaining  guests. 

It  was  now  September,  so  Lady  Allonby  asked  her  brother 
if  he  minded  a few  people  being  there.  Being  very  unselfish, 
he  would  not  refuse  to  remain  at  Woodbridge,  when  he 
found  that  his  sister  had  set  her  heart  on  his  remaining 
under  her  roof. 

Some  dozen  people  therefore  assembled,  the  gentlemen 
for  shooting,  the  ladies  to  flirt  and  enjoy  themselves  boat- 
ing, and  dancing,  and  riding. 


A u NOVEL ” NOVEL. 


137 


Among  these  was  Lynette  de  San  sal,  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  women  of  her  day. 

She  was  quite  young,  about  five-and-twenty,  lovely  as 
a dream,  with  the  coloring  of  a Spaniard,  and  masses  of 
black  hair,  and  great,  languishing  black  eyes,  veiled  by  long 
lashes. 

She  was,  moreover,  a widow,  and  report  said  had  led  her 
husband  a terrible  life  with  her  extravagance,  bad  temper 
and  flirtations.  Her  fathev*  was  a Spaniard,  her  husband  a 
Frenchman,  the  Count  de  Sansal. 

He  had  been  dead  two  years. 

Of  course  the  Duke’s  tragic  story  was  known  to  her  as 
to  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  being  quite  incapable  of  sym- 
pathizing with  the  troubles  of  others,  nothing  touched  or 
interested  her  except  what  affected  herself  personally.  She 
thought  the  Duchess’s  disappearance  a decided  blessing. 
Hearts  are  often  caught  in  the  rebound  ; Lynette  was  very 
ambitious ; a countess’s  coronet  did  not  satisfy  her  when 
strawberry  leaves  existed.  She  came  to  Woodbridge  with  a 
purpose— -that  of,  if  possible,  supplanting  the  Duchess, 
always  supposing  that  lady  did  not  appear  any  more, 

She  had  known  the  Duke  a long  time,  they  were  on  terms 
of  great  friendship,  and  people  at  one  time  thought  that 
she  would  have  been  his  choice.  But  he  met  Seringa,  and 
the  whole  world  was  changed  for  him  then.  Any  slight 
fancy  he  had  for  Lynette  was  quite  a ihing  of  the  past,  for 
in  Seringa  he  met  the  only  woman  who  had  power  to  com- 
plete his  life,  and  make  his  marriage  with  her  a true  union 
of  hearts  as  well  as  hands. 

Therefore,  Lynette  de  Sansal  hated  Seringa  with  all  the 
spite  such  a nature  as  hers  was  capable  of.  She  would  bide 
her  time,  and  do  her  best  to  console  the  Duke,  after  a fitting 
time  had  elapsed,  for  she  did  not  believe  in  “ one  love  in  a 
life.”  A dangerous  woman,  truly,  and  her  witcheries  were 
enhanced  by  her  beauty,  and  that  most  charming  of  all  gifts 
—a  low,  sweet  voice,  which  almost  made  people  believe  in 
her  goodness. 

She  plays  her  game  quietly  and  warily,  but  it  is  all  to  no 
purpose  ; the  Duke  is  absolutely  faithful  to  his  wife’s  most 
cherished  memory. 


138 


A “novel”  novel. 

Christmas  comes  and  goes,  a new  year  is  begun,  which 
finds  matters  in  precisely  the  same  state,  except  that  the 
Duke  is  more  despairing  ; indeed,  he  has  given  up  all  hope 
of  ever  seeing  his  darling  again. 

Lady  Allonby  is  in  despair.  The  Duke  is  the  last  of  his 
line  except  a ne’er-do-well  cousin.  It  would  be  the  greatest 
misfortune  should  the  title  fall  to  him,  and  when  the  de- 
tectives acknowledge  that  they  are  powerless  and  utterly 
nonplussed,  she  by  degrees  tries  to  induce  her  brother  to 
entertain  the  idea  after  a certain  time  of  marrying  again, 
telling  him  that  Seringa  would  only  desire  his  welfare  and 
happiness,  and  would  feel  sure  her  memory  would  always 
&bide  with  him,  but  he  ought  to  marry,  and  let  the  old  title 
go,  as  it  had  always  done  up  to  now,  in  an  unbroken  line  for 
generations  from  father  to  son. 

Seven  months  after  the  Duchess’s  disappearance  still  finds 
the  Duke  at  Woodbridge.  Lynette  de  Sansal  is  also  there 
again. 

Lady  Allonby  wants  a governess  for  her  twin  girls  of 
neven.  She  sees  an  advertisement  in  the  newspaper,  goes 
to  London,  and  requests  the  lady  to  call  upon  her.  She 
does  so. 

She  has  the  most  beautiful  snow-white  hair,  lovely  fea- 
tures, and  violet  eyes,  when  the  spectacles  she  wears  are  for 
a moment  removed. 

She  explains  to  Lady  Allonby  that  she  suffers  much  with 
her  eyes,  and  always  wears  glasses,  and  she  tells  her  also 
that  her  hair  being  so  white  is  the  result  of  a shock  from 
which  she  has  never  recovered.  When  it  comes  to  references 
she  has  none  to  give,  but  she  begs  Lady  Allonby  to  give 
her  a trial,  and  she,  prompted  by  some  feeling  she  is  at  a 
loss  to  account  for,  consents. 

She  is  strangely  attracted  by  this  lady  (that  she  is  one  she 
is  sure),  with  her  sad  face  and  her  pathetic  eyes.  She  is  evi- 
dently much  younger  than  she  looks.  Her  plain  black  dress 
fits  her  like  a glove,  and  is  very  neat  and  becoming.  So  it  is 
arranged  that  she  shall  take  up  her  duties  at  Woodbridge 
the  following  week. 

Accordingly  Lady  Allonby  returns  home  and  tells  what 
she  has  done. 


A * ‘ NOVEL  ’ ’ NOVEL. 


139 


Lynette  de  Sansal  shrugs  her  shoulders  scornfully,  and 
prophesies  that  Lady  Allonby’s  protegee  is  an  adventuress. 
Lord  Allonby  approves  of  what  his  wife  does,  and  the  Duke 
is  politely  indifferent. 

Nothing  that  any  woman  in  the  world  can  do  now  mat- 
ters to  him,  since  the  one  woman  in  the  world  for  him  is 
apparently  lost  to  him  forever. 

Miss  Deramore  accordingly  appears  at  Woodbridge,  and 
is  received  with  open  arms  by  her  pupils,  who  take  a fancy 
to  her  then  and  there.  The  servants,  too,  immediately  speak 
in  her  praise  ; in  short,  as  Lady  Allonby  observes  triumph- 
antly, her  protegee  is  quite  a success. 

She  is  so  quiet,  so  willing  and  unobtrusive  ; she  teaches 
the  little  girls  all  that  is  required  so  thoroughly  ; she  is  good 
tempered,  lovely  to  look  upon — in  a word,  charming. 

The  Duke  is  away  when  she  arrives,  but  he  is  introduced 
to  her  at  luncheon.  He  gives  a start  as  his  eyes  rest  upon 
her  and  for  the  first  time  since  Seringa  disappeared  Lady 
Allonby  notices  a shade  of  interest  cross  his  expressive  face, 
which  fact  is  patent  also  to  Lynette  de  Sansal’s  keen  eyes. 
Miss  Deramore  herself  turns  white  to  her  lips,  but  recovers 
herself  with  an  effort,  and  returns  the  Duke’s  bow  with  one 
as  courteous  as  his  own.  After  this  she  takes  no  notice  of 
him  ; indeed,  she  avoids  him  in  a marked  manner,  until  one 
day  he  remarks  it  to  his  sister. 

Is  it  possible,  thinks  Lady’  Allonby,  that  Miss  Deramore 
thinks  she  will  succeed  in  making  the  Duke  in  love  with  her? 
So,  that  all  may  be  above  board,  Lady  Allonby  tells  her  the 
whole  tragedy  of  his  extraordinary  wedding  day,  and  how 
his  wife  had  never  been  found. 

Miss  Deramore  is  horrified,  and  full  of  pity  for  the  man 
who  has  borne  so  much,  and  proved  himself  so  constant. 

In  spite  of  her  constrained  manner  to  the  Duke,  he  seeks 
her  society  more  and  more. 

This  Lynette  de  Sansal  quickly  observes,  and  she  sets  to 
wrork  by  sneer  and  innuendo  to  try  and  oust  Miss  Deramore 
from  the  favorite  impression  her  quietness  and  beauty  have 
produced  on  the  Duke.  She  even  goes  so  far  as  to  hint  that 
she,  Lynette,  knows  more  about  Miss  Deramore  than  others, 
and  that  her  knowledge  does  not  say  much  for  the  morals  of 


140 


A “ NOVEL  ” NOVEL. 


the  governess.  She  makes  her  out  a regular  fortune-hunter, 
who  has  set  her  cap  at  the  Duke,  in  the  hope  that  she  may 
enslave  him  in  her  toils  so  completely  that,  in  due  course, 
he  may  marry  her. 

The  Duke  listens  in  silence,  and  when  the  angry  woman 
has  stopped  from  sheer  want  of  breath  in  her  atrocious  in- 
sinuations (she  regards  Miss  Deramore  as  a rival,  and  feels, 
since  her  appearance  on  the  scene,  her  chance  is  over,  she 
will  never  marry  the  Duke),  he  tells  her  his  opinion  of  her 
unwomanly  conduct  in  trying  to  poison  his  mind  against  an 
unoffending  woman,  who,  being  in  total  ignorance  of  the 
remarks  made  about  her,  cannot  refute  them  or  defend  her- 
self ; and  he  tells  Lynette  that  in  his  opinion  Miss  Deramore 
is  worthy  indeed  of  the  respect  and  good  opinion  of  all  who 
know  her.  Lady  Allonby  discovers  that  Miss  Deramore’s 
favorite  flower  is  seringa  ; tells  her  brother,  who  is  power- 
fully affected  by  the  knowledge.  The  very  word  recalls  to 
him,  until  an  agony  of  longing  is  almost  unbearable,  his  dar- 
ling whom  he  has  indeed  “ loved  and  lost.” 

Time  passes  without  tidings  of  the  Duchess,  and  it  be- 
comes evident  that  the  only  person  who  can  interest  the 
Duke  in  the  slightest  is  Miss  Deramore. 

One  day  Lady  Allonby  has  a long  talk  with  him.  She 
urges  him  to  propose  to  Miss  Deramore,  telling  him  that 
•Seringa  would  wish  it.  His  wedding-day,  the  2d,  will  soon 
be  here  again.  Miss  Deramore  has  been  at  Woodbridge  since 
January,  after  the  Duchess’s  disappearance.  Lady  Allonby 
and  all  the  family  are  devoted  to  her,  she  is  treated  as  a 
friend,  and  would  be  entirely  one  of  them  were  it  not  for  her 
own  persistence  in  remaining  aloof  from  them  all  as  much  as 
possible. 

Lady  Allonby  begs  him  to  think  of  the  future  of  his 
enormous  property,  and  not  to  let  it  fall  into  the  hands  of 
a spendthrift  and  roue , such  as  the  heir-apparent  to  the 
dukedom  is. 

But  it  is  all  of  no  avail.  The  Duke  acknowledges  that 
Miss  Deramore  attracts  him  as  no  woman  in  the  world  but 
Seringa  has  ever  done.  He  remarks  that  he  is  ashamed  of 
himself  that  it  is  so,  that  she  should  ever  have  the  smallest 
passing  influence  over  him,  as  he  had  always  boasted  that  he 


A u NOVEL 99  NOVEL, 

had  only  wisli’or  capability  for  one  Icve  in  his  life  ; and  that 
as  he  had  never  loved  until  he  saw  Seringa,  so  after  her  loss 
no  woman  should  take  her  place.  He  would  live  for  her 
memory,  for  Seringa  lo£t , maybe  dead,  was  more  to  him  chan 
all  the  women  in  the  world,  replete  with  life  and  beauty  as 
they  might  be. 

He  asks  his  sister  if  there  is  not  a strong-  but  undefinable 
something  that  reminds  her  of  Seringa,  adding  that  he  feels 
it  so  strongly  that  it  is  torture  to  him.  He  tells  her  that  if 
such  a thing  as  marriage  were  possible  to  him  again  he 
would  marry  Miss  Deramore,  if  she  would  have  him,  but  that 
he  cannot  propose  to  her  or  to  anyone ; his  constancy  to 
Seringa  forbids  it.  Lady  Allonby  can  only  wait  and  trust  to 
time  to  bring  about  the  marriage  she  so  much  desires. 

The  eve  of  his  second  wedding-day  comes  round.  Miss 
Deramore  is  missing ; they  make  every  search  for  her  inef- 
fectually. 

The  second  wedding-day  dawns.  The  Duke  goes  into  the 
rose  garden,  full  of  the  queen  or  flowers  ; sweet  and  lovely 
are  they,  and  the  perfume  of  the  hedge  of  seringa,  which 
borders  it,  recalls  his  unhappy  position  still  more  to  him.  He 
breaks  off  a spray  of  blossom,  and  kissing  it  passionately,  ex- 
claims, “ Would  to  God  I could  see  my  darling,  if  only  once 
again.  He  looks  up  as  he  speaks,  compelled  by  some  feeling 
stronger  than  himself  to  do  so. 

What  does  he  see?  Who  is  this  lovely  woman  standing 
within  a few  paces  of  him,  with  outstretched  arms,  and  eyes 
full  of 'joy  and  love? 

“Merciful  Heavens!  am  I mad?”  he  says.  “My  wife! 
has  God  given  you  back  to  me  alive  and, well?” 

“Yes,  my  darling  husband,”  Seringa  replies  ; “ it  is  my- 
self and  none  ocher.” 

And  he  clasps  her  in  his  arms,  and  kisses  her  again  and 
again. 

So  Lady  Allonby  finds  them  a short  time  later.  She  is 
about  to  withdraw,  believing  that  her  brother  has  proposed 
to,  and  been  accepted  by  Miss  Deramore,  when  her  brother 
sees  her,  turns  to  her,  and  says — 

“ Geraldine,  now  we  know  what  attracted  us  both  to  Miss 
Deramore.  You  wanted  me  to  propose  to  my  own  wife.” 


A ‘ ‘ NOVEL  ’ 9 NOVEL. 


140 

And  Lady  Allonby,  Yxth  joy  that  makes  her  speechless 
sees  the  white  hair  gone,  as  also  the  spectacles,  and  in  their 
place  the  golden  hair  and  violet  eyes  of  the  long-lost 
Duchess.  As  for  the  delight  of  Lord  Allonby,  and  the  dis- 
gust of  Lynette  de  Sansal,  both  knew  no  bounds. 

Then  Seringa  tells  them  the  secret  of  her  disappearance. 

When  she  went  to  change  her  dress,  her  maid  having 
left  her,  she  was  aroused  by  a slight  sound  in  the  gallery, 
and  looking  up,  saw  a boy  mounted  on  stilts,  who  threw  her 
a dirty,  crumpled-up  bit  of  paper,  and  forthwith  returned  as 
be  came. 

Mechanically  she  opened  it,  for  she  knew  her  time  was 
short,  and  when  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  writing  and  the  con- 
tents of  the  note,  she  thought  she  should  die  then  and 
there. 

It  was  from  her  husband,  whom  for  eight  long  years  she 
had  believed  to  be  dead  ; he  tells  her  that  he  was  nearly 
drowned,  but  recovered  miraculously  ; being  tired  of  her  he 
went  to  America,  and  made  an  enormous  fortune,  so  did  not 
interfere  with  what  his  will  gave  her  ; lost  all  his  money, 
and,  being  penniless,  sought  Seringa  out ; heard  of  her  in- 
tended marriage  with  the  Duke,  and,  like  the  fiend  he  was, 
allowed  the  ceremony  to  take  place,  and  then  finding  a boy 
playing  on  stilts  gave  him  five  shillings  to  convey  the  note 
to  her ; for  he  had  prowled  about  the  house  some  days,  and 
ascertaining  from  one  of  the  servants  the  room  in  which 
Seringa  was  to  dress,  bade  her  come  to  him  at  once. 

She  feels  that  the  contents  of  the  note  are  true,  so  locks 
the  door  ; with  trembling  hands  and  an  agony  of  despair 
m her  aching  heart,  puts  a few  things  into  a little  bag,  takes 
off  all  her  lovely  clothes  and  jewels,  and  putting  on  a plain 
dress  and  bonnet,  left  in  the  room  by  Lady  Allonby’s  maid, 
she  puts  her  wedding  dress  into  the  secret  cupboard,  and  with 
light  tread  crosses  the  few  yards  that  separate  her  from  the 
gate  in  the  wall,  opens  it,  and  finds  herself  face  to  face  with 
Mr.  Arkell  ; remembers  no  more  for  hours ; when  she  comes 
to  herself,  finds  herself  with  hipa  in  a dirty  lodging  in  the 
East-end  of  London.  He  proposes  that  she  should  return 
to  the  Duke,  say  nothing  of  his  being  alive,  and  he  will  un. 
dertake  never  to  trouble  her  again,  sc  long  as  she  pays  him 


regularly  a large  allowance.  She  professes  to  be  willing  to 
accept  his  terms,  and  asks  for  a little  time  to  consider.  He 
leaves  her  to  go  and  get  some  drink,  he  being  already  half 
tipsy. 

She  has,  fortunately,  a very  large  sum  in  gold  with  her 
which  she  drew  out  of  the  bank  a few  days  previously  ; she 
slips  out  of  the  house,  goes  to  a wig  shop,  and  buys  a white 
wig,  saying  she  wants  ft  for  some  theatricals  ; then  she  buys 
some  blue  spectacles,  and  finally  a black  dress  and  bonnet, 
such  as  a nurse  wears,  giving  the  same  excuse  of  theatri- 
cals. Goes  home,  dresses,  puts  on  wig  and  spectacles,  and, 
making  her  other  clothes  into  a parcel,  opens  the  door,  and 
when  Mr.  Arkell  returns,  she  has  disappeared. 

She  has  left  a large  sum  of  money  for  him,  and  tells  him 
that  she  repudiates  his  offer  with  scorn,  and  that  henceforth 
she  is  dead  to  him  and  the  Duke  also 

She  goes  to  an  old  nurse  who  has  known  her  all  her  life, 
and  to  her  she  tells  the  truth,  before  she  succumbs  to  the 
brain  fever  which  nearly  kills  her. 

Faithfully  does  the  good  woman  nurse  her  and  keep  her 
secret,  and  by  degrees  she  recovers  After  a long  time — 
some  months — she  advertises  tot  a governess’s  place  ; her 
funds  are  exhausted,  and  she  must  work  gets  Lady  Allon- 
by’s  Situation,  and  in  spite  of  the  possibility  of  being  found 
out,  takes  it ; it  is  so  sweet  to  her  to  be  under  the  same 
roof  as  the  man  she  adores,  though  she  can  never  be  any- 
thing to  him  : he  does  not  find  her  out,  and  she,  seeing  that 
he  is  attracted  to  her,  avoids  him  as  much  as  possible. 

Overhears  his  reply  to  Lady  Aiionby*  when  she  begs  him 
to  propose  to  her,  and  rejoices  in  this  proof  of  his  constancy 
and  devotion  to  her. 

The  eve  of  her  second  wedding-day  arrives  ; she  takes  up 
a paper,  and  sees  that  her  husband  this  time  is  really  and 
truly  dead,  for  he  had  been  killed  in  a terrible  railway  acci- 
dent in  America,  in  which  a whole  train  had  gone  over  the 
parapet  of  a bridge  into  the  valley  below.  On  his  body  were 
found  papers  which  established  his  identity,  and  the  paper, 
advertised  for  any  one  belonging  to  him. 

She  rushed  off  to  London,  telegraphed  to  the  address 
given,  and  got  the  reply  confirming  everything  ; so  once 


A “ NOVEL 


NOVEL. 


And  Lady  Allonby,  V xth  joy  that  makes  her  speechless 
sees  the  white  hair  gone,  as  also  the  spectacles,  and  in  their 
place  the  golden  hair  and  violet  eyes  of  the  long-lost 
Duchess.  As  for  the  delight  of  Lord  Allonby,  and  the  dis- 
gust of  Lynette  de  Sansal,  both  knew  no  bounds. 

Then  Seringa  tells  them  the  secret  of  her  disappearance. 

When  she  went  to  change  her  dress,  her  maid  having 
left  her,  she  was  aroused  by  a slight  sound  in  the  gallery, 
and  looking  up,  saw  a boy  mounted  on  stilts,  who  threw  her 
a dirty,  crumpled-up  bit  of  paper,  and  forthwith  returned  as 
be  came. 

Mechanically  she  opened  it,  for  she  knew  her  time  was 
short,  and  when  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  writing  and  the  con- 
tents of  the  note,  she  thought  she  should  die  then  and 
there. 

It  was  from  her  husband,  whom  for  eight  long  years  she 
bad  believed  to  be  dead  ; he  tells  her  that  he  was  nearly 
drowned,  but  recovered  miraculously  ; being  tired  of  her  he 
went  to  America,  and  made  an  enormous  fortune,  so  did  not 
interfere  with  what  his  will  gave  her  ; lost  all  his  money, 
and,  being  penniless,  sought  Seringa  out ; heard  of  her  in- 
tended marriage  with  the  Duke,  and,  like  the  fiend  he  was, 
allowed  the  ceremony  to  take  place,  and  then  finding  a boy 
playing  on  stilts  gave  him  five  shillings  to  convey  the  note 
to  her  ; for  he  had  prowled  about  the  house  some  days,  and 
ascertaining  from  one  of  the  servants  the  room  in  which 
Seringa  was  to  dress,  bade  her  come  to  him  at  once. 

She  feels  that  the  contents  of  the  note  are  true,  so  locks 
the  door  ; with  trembling  hands  and  an  agony  of  despair 
m her  aching  heart,  puts  a few  things  into  a little  bag,  takes 
off  all  her  lovely  clothes  and  jewels,  and  putting  on  a plain 
dress  and  bonnet,  left  in  the  room  by  Lady  Allonby’s  maid, 
she  puts  her  wedding  dress  into  the  secret  cupboard,  and  with 
light  tread  crosses  the  few  vards  that  separate  her  from  the 
gate  in  the  wall,  opens  it,  and  finds  herself  face  to  face  with 
Mr.  Arkell  ; remembers  no  more  for  hours  ; when  she  comes 
to  herself,  finds  herself  with  higi  in  a dirty  lodging  in  the 
East-end  of  London.  He  proposes  that  she  should  return 
to  the  Duke,  say  nothing  of  his  being  alive,  and  he  will  un. 
dertake  never  to  trouble  her  again,  so  long  as  she  pays  him 


143 


A 


“ NOVEL  ” 


NOVEL. 


regularly  a large  allowance.  She  professes  to  be  willing  to 
accept  his  terms,  and  asks  for  a little  time  to  consider.  He 
leaves  her  to  go  and  get  some  drink,  he  being  already  half 
tipsy. 

She  has,  fortunately,  a very  large  sum  in  gold  with  her 
which  she  drew  out  of  the  bank  a few  days  previously  ; she 
slips  out  of  the  house,  goes  to  a wig  shop,  and  buys  a white 
wig,  saying  she  wants  it  for  some  theatricals  ; then  she  buys 
some  blue  spectacles,  and  finally  a black  dress  and  bonnet, 
such  as  a nurse  wears,  giving  the  same  excuse  of  theatri- 
cals. Goes  home,  dresses,  puts  on  wig  and  spectacles,  and, 
making  her  other  clothes  into  a parcel,  opens  the  door,  and 
when  Mr.  Arkell  returns,  she  has  disappeared. 

She  has  left  a large  sum  of  money  for  him,  and  tells  him 
that  she  repudiates  his  offer  with  scorn,  and  that  henceforth 
she  is  dead  to  him  and  the  Duke  also 

She  goes  to  an  old  nurse  who  has  known  her  all  her  life, 
and  to  her  she  tells  the  truth,  before  she  succumbs  to  the 
brain  fever  which  nearly  kills  her. 

Faithfully  does  the  good  woman  nurse  her  and  keep  her 
secret,  and  by  degrees  she  recovers  After  a long  time — 
some  months — she  advertises  for  a governess’s  place  ; her 
funds  are  exhausted,  and  she  must  work  gets  Lady  Allon- 
by’s  Situation,  and  in  spite  of  the  possibility  of  being  found 
out,  takes  it ; it  is  so  sweet  to  her  to  oe  under  the  same 
roof  as  the  man  she  adores,  though  she  can  never  be  any- 
thing to  him  ; he  does  not  find  her  out,  and  she,  seeing  that 
he  is  attracted  to  her,  avoids  him  as  much  as  possible. 

Overhears  his  reply  to  Lady  Aiionby*  when  she  begs  him 
to  propose  to  her,  and  rejoices  in  this  proof  of  his  constancy 
and  devotion  to  her. 

The  eve  of  her  second  wedding-day  arrives  ; she  takes  up 
a paper,  and  sees  that  her  husband  this  time  is  really  and 
truly  dead,  for  he  bad  been  killed  in  a terrible  railway  acci- 
dent in  America,  in  which  a whole  train  had  gone  over  the 
parapet  of  a bridge  into  the  valley  below.  On  his  body  were 
found  papers  which  established  his  identity,  and  the  paper 
advertised  for  any  one  belonging  to  him. 

She  rushed  off  to  London,  telegraphed  to  the  address 
given,  and  got  the  reply  confirming  everything  ; so  once 


more  she  was  free.  Thus  her  second  wedding-day  dawned 
and  set  with  happiness  and  rejoicing ; the  evil  influence  of 
her  life  was  for  ever  removed  ; henceforth  she  was  free,  after 
all  her  misery,  to  love  and  be  beloved  ; she  had  proved  the 
Duke’s  constancy  to  her — all  was  peace  and  rest. 

She  and  the  Duke  were  married  again  in  the  little  chapel 
at  Woodbridge.  “ All’s  well  that  ends  well!”  What  a 
harvest  of  joy  and  delight  was  theirs,  after  the  tragic  be- 
ginning of  their  first  wedding-day. 

THE  END. 


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